


The Black Parade

by Strangeredlantern, Vague_Shadows



Series: The Black Parade [1]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Aftercare, Alex Manes Needs a Hug, Aliens are known, Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Birthday Fluff, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Bullying, Canon Bisexual Character, Canon Gay Character, Consent, Corrective Rape (Mentioned), Cowboy Michael Guerin, Death Threats, Developing Friendships, Drug Use, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enthusiastic Consent, Eventual Michael Guerin/Alex Manes, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Bottoming, First Time Topping, Flint Manes is also his own warning, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Homophobic Flint Manes, Homophobic Language, Horseback Riding, Horses, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Internalized Xenophobia, Jesse Manes is His Own Warning, M/M, Manipulation, Massage, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Michael Guerin Loves Alex Manes, Michael Guerin Needs a Hug, Mild Blood, Minor Injuries, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, POV Michael Guerin, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Play Fighting, Post-Coital Cuddling, Power Imbalance, Protective Siblings, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sad Michael Guerin, Secret Crush, Self-Esteem Issues, Shower Sex, Sibling Bonding, Slow Burn, Telekinesis, Telepathy, Threats of Violence, Unethical Experimentation, Unethical Medicine, Xenophobia, discussion of consent, severe physical abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-22 22:16:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 112,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23034619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strangeredlantern/pseuds/Strangeredlantern, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vague_Shadows/pseuds/Vague_Shadows
Summary: "Nobody owns you, Guerin," Alex says.“Yeah, right, of course not,” Michael agrees without conviction.  “No one owns me.  My body is just entrusted to the guardianship of the good ol’ Global Resource Alliance for the Care of Extraterrestrials.”  With an acronym like GRACE the program couldn’t possibly be an evil, twisted, farce, after all.  Michael’s seen the videos from the propaganda campaigns--been featured as one of the haggard faces in the videos of the crash survivors.  It’s what made him such a popular request for the Antaran Family Placement program--except of course, the people who saw that terrified young alien on their screens had all been expecting some timid little child who’d lap up their praise and coddling eagerly and be a Good Little Showpiece of how generous and benevolent his placement family was.Boy were they all disappointed to meet the real Michael Guerin....-----aka our RNM-AU Inspired by District Nine, Arrival, and real-life coverage of UNHCR work
Relationships: Isabel Evans & Max Evans & Michael Guerin, Michael Guerin & Alex Manes, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Series: The Black Parade [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1720282
Comments: 178
Kudos: 170





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We will be updating the specific tags as we go. If you feel we've missed something, please let us know. 
> 
> We don't have a set update schedule right now, but the goal is to update about once per week.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

# The New York Times

## Three Antaran Children Pulled from the Rubble in New Mexico

### Three as of yet unnamed children, assumed age 7, were rescued after another crash in the American city of Roswell. Within hours, a photo of their dust- and blood-covered faces captured the world's attention. This is the story behind the image. 3:47 p.m. August 5, 1997.

#### ALBUQUERQUE, United States — In the images, they huddle together, two small boys and a girl coated with gray dust and encrusted blood. Their little feet barely extend beyond the chair. The boy on the left stares, bewildered, shocked and, above all, weary, as if channeling the mood of Antaran refugees.

The children, now assigned names by the United States division of the Global Resource Alliance for the Care of Extraterrestrials (GRACE-US) as (from left to right) Guerin, Isobel, and Maxwell, 7, were pulled from a damaged Antaran ship after a GRACE-US airstrike hastened the alien vehicle’s crash landing in the desert city of Roswell, New Mexico. They were three of the five Antarans treated on Wednesday at GRACE-US’s southwestern medical and research ward — not a particularly unusual figure — the facility is one of the hospitals in GRACE-US’ southwestern section, according to doctors there.

But some images strike a particular nerve, for reasons both obvious and unknowable, jarring even a public numbed to disaster. The cluster is one such image.

Within minutes of being posted by witnesses and journalists, a photograph and a video of the clusters and their crash began rocketing around the world on social media. Unwittingly, the cluster — like Edestra, the Antaran toddler who drowned last September after the ship carrying her crashed into the Mediterranean sea and whose body washed up on a Turkish beach — is bringing new attention to the thousands upon thousands of children killed and injured during disorganized and hostile Antaran landings and crashes, and the inability or unwillingness of global powers to stop the carnage.

Maybe it was Guerin’s haircut, long and floppy up top; or Maxwell’s rumpled T-shirt showing the TV cartoon character CatDog; or Isobel’s tentative, confused movements in the video. Or the instant and inescapable question of whether either of their parents was left alive.

In any event, by Thursday morning, the cluster’s image had been broadcast and published around the world, and both refugee conservatives and progressives alike were sharing mock-ups of their photographs in memes that both cried for help and darkly mocked the futile repetitiveness of such pleas.

One, riffing on the cluster’s office-like chair, showed him at a desk as if representing his country to the world.

Another pasted them like a silent accusation between President Johnson and his Russian counterpart, President Alexi Golubev.

The drafting of the cluster as an emblem of despair is not new; images of dead and injured children from Antar are shared daily on social media, many of them indescribably more harrowing. Pieces of children’s bodies being pulled from crash rubble are photographed with appalling regularity in an intergalactic refugee crisis of indiscriminate attacks, most often from government airstrikes and shelling but also from anti-Antaran mortars.

But while the mind revolts against looking too long at those pictures, and many news media shun them as too gruesome, it may be the relatively familiar look of the cluster’s distress that allows a broader public to relate to it.

In the case of Edestra, the Antaran toddler who washed up on a beach after crash survivors tried to reach shore on a smuggler’s boat, the child was dead. But her body was intact, lying in the sand as if sleeping, and dressed neatly with evident parental love for her big journey from the GRACE-North Africa camp to GRACE-Norway settlement.

The cluster, as they are carried from the crashed ship by GRACE-US aid workers in the dark, could be Everychild. Isobel looks around in confusion, her chubby forearm draped trustingly across the reflective stripe on her rescuer’s back, before she is plopped into the chair at the back of an ambulance, lit blindingly white.

Guerin settles into a thousand-yard stare, apparently too stunned to cry. Then he puts a hand to his bloody brow, looks at his palm in surprise, and tries to wipe it on the chair. He glances around as if trying to understand where he is.

The cluster’s picture and video were distributed by the Antaran Media Center, a longstanding group of anti-GRACE activists and citizen journalists who have documented the Antaran conflicts since the first crash in 1945. They were also shared with journalists by doctors from the GRACE-US southwestern division hospital where they were treated, which is supported by the Antaran-American Alliance Medical Society.

The video shows two more Antarans brought to the ambulance. They were taken to the hospital already swamped with casualties.

Dahlia Valenti, a radiology nurse, was in the emergency room when the clusters arrived around 9 p.m. with bruises and cuts all over their bodies.

“The girl, Isobel, was traumatized,” Mr. Ahmad said. “She wasn’t speaking when she arrived. A few minutes later, the two others started crying from pain.”

Ms. Valenti cleaned Guerin’s face and bandaged his head, as images shared by the hospital’s medical staff showed. Doctors said they found no apparent signs of brain injury.

In the chaos, the hospital workers, who communicated via online messages, could not immediately say which of the cluster’s adult passengers were alive and whether they were with them.

That is not unusual, medical workers say, in a camp where some dead and injured Antaran children cannot even be identified because they are brought in alone. Crashes bring so many patients at once that doctors treat them on the floor, and hospitals and medical workers have been systematically targeted in the ensuing conflicts.

Later, doctors at the hospital said they had verified that the cluster’s parents had not survived, and their ship had been declared a total scientific loss. Unidentified hospital representatives declined to speak, saying they were afraid of GRACE-US reprisals. The doctors said the rescued cluster may have Antaran relatives living in GRACE-US controlled territory.

Cases like the cluster’s are a daily sight in the southwestern US, several doctors said, adding that they were lucky in that they made it to a hospital that was still open. Funding for GRACE-US’s philanthropic programs has been cut in recent years.

Ms. Valenti, the nurse, said several other Antaran children had been hospitalized with the cluster, along with a 22-year-old human who had been nearby at the time of the ship crash for eight hours. He said that at least three other Antarans had died in the crash.

“But the cluster took all the attention,” he said.

Grant Green, the photographer, was surprised that the images of this one cluster drew so much news coverage when, he said, he photographs similar events every day.

On Thursday morning, journalists from around the world were clamoring in an online chat group for more information about the cluster and the other passengers in the crash. But the doctors had moved on.

They were handling yet another influx from a downed ship that morning, later posting new images. An Antaran child lay on the floor, his legs missing. A GRACE aid worker in black put her hand to her mouth in anguish.

Another antaran victim lay on a gurney, soaked in blood, as a clinician worked on him. A few minutes later came another text message: The antaran boy had died. His name was Iskari Jorish according to his surviving crash members, and there was a new photograph of his face, eyes closed. It is not likely to go viral.

# The New York Times

## Antaran Boy Who Became Image of GRACE Controversy Reappears

### A young antaran boy who captured the world’s attention ten years ago when images of his blood- and dust-covered face spread across the internet has been recast this week to bolster the United States division of the Global Resource Alliance for the Care of Extraterrestrials (GRACE-US) cause in a series of television interviews.

The boy, Guerin, and his siblings, Max and Isobel Evans came to symbolize the plight of Antarans besieged by government forces in the southwestern United States when his family’s ship was shot down ten years ago this August. Local activists shared old photos and videos of the frightened cluster of refugees on social media. 

Now, he and his new work placement program supervisor Warden Jesse Manes of The GRACE-US Southwest Camp, have appeared on news channels supportive of President Johnson and the GRACE placement system, apparently part of a calculated public relations campaign by the United States government.

These are the first images of Guerin — once known to the news media as Michael Evans before his first family placement was terminated — that have been broadcast since he was rescued ten years ago by volunteer emergency workers with the now well-known twins, Isobel and Max Evans. At the time of the crash, his first placement family had refused to speak to the news media about the rescued cluster.

In an interview with the United States outlet Fox News, Guerin turns to the camera and tells the interviewer hesitantly: “I’m very lucky that my GRACE work placements have given me the skills to be of use on Warden Manes’ Ranch.”

Initial information from Antaran-American Alliance activists in New Mexico had indicated that Guerin was anywhere from 7 to 9 at the time of his crash, and has been identified by several different names corresponding to family and work placements over the last ten years, illustrating how difficult it has been to verify the facts of his story.

Guerin’s crash-mate, Max Evans, said in an interview on Fox News that he feared for his brother’s safety after the new spread across the internet.

“My parents helped Guerin select a placement name so no one would know him, and changed his haircut, so news media would not film him or recognize my sister and me,” Mr. Evans told Jenna Craswell, a journalist with the United State’s New York Times.

In the new photos, Guerin’s once curly hair is now close-cropped.

Violence inside GRACE-US Southwest camps reached a boiling point in 2002 and divided the United States on the future of the US’s relationship with the United Nations administered GRACE program. The Evans family released Guerin from his family placement when their house was vandalized with spray paint declaring “FAMILY PLACEMENT= RESIDENTIAL SCHOOLS”. The Evans family refused investigations and would not speak to the media. Some residents said the family did not wish to have the perpetrator revealed. Others said the Evans were government-sponsored and did not want their son and daughter to become opposition poster children.

“I stayed in the GRACE-US Southwest Camp area, where I grew up, and hopefully my children someday,” Isobel Evans said in another interview that was broadcast Monday. She also criticized the in-camp Antaran opposition fighting to oust Warden Manes. “They are the ones who hurt our reputation and our country’s reputation and disgrace Antarans who actually want to integrate, to work, and have families outside the Camp,” she said.

Antarans appearing on US television are not able to speak freely. The government exerts tight control over all information broadcast about the GRACE-US camps, including interviews with Antaran camp residents, who can be coerced and threatened with arrest if they criticize the GRACE camps throughout the US.

Speaking to a pro-GRACE news outlet in New York, Max Evans recounted the night of the crash. At the time, rescue workers who responded to the crash told The New York Times that 2 additional antarans had been recovered from the wreckage. But Mr. Evans never mentioned it in any of his television appearances this week.

Max Evans and Isobel Evans have been pressured by opposition activists after Guerin was released from his Orlando, Florida work placement to “talk against the GRACE-US regime and the US Government’s camp research agendas,” adding that they had been offered money to do so, which they refused.

Supporters of the government and GRACE-opposition activists have been quick to accuse each other of using Guerin to further their own agenda.

In several of the interviews broadcast this week, Warden Manes elaborated on the timing of Guerin’s new Antaran Work Placement. “Rebels had tried to intimidate him, and his siblings wanted him safe. I did what I could to help the Evans twins with this selfless request.” 

“They wanted to use his photo and use him,” Warden Manes said, adding that armed opposition forces had also threatened to kidnap Guerin from his former work placement in Orlando, Florida.

Rosa Ortecho, a pro-opposition journalist, said in a recent video that she had delivered a donation of clothing to Warden Manes for Guerin, having known him during his first Antaran Family Placement in Roswell, New Mexico. She asked if Guerin could be filmed, but the Warden declined.

“Warden Manes said, ‘No, I don’t need the help and I don’t want my employee to be on cameras,’” Ortecho said in a WhatsApp group message. “But can Michael Guerin really say 'no' to the Warden who controls his siblings’ philanthropic, pro-integration careers?”

  
  


# PROLOGUE

Despite himself, Michael winces at the harsh voice as the guitar is ripped from his hands. 

“Dammit, Guerin, you can’t just _take_ things that aren’t yours,” Alex Manes scolds, glaring at him as he inspects the guitar like Michael may have damaged it.

“I was going to put it back,” Michael replies with a shrug, trying to be nonchalant in the face of someone who really could rain holy hell down on him for this infraction--Alex is the son of the Warden after all, even if he’s not the favorite, he’s still powerful.

“That’s not the point. It doesn’t belong to you.”

“Of course it doesn’t belong to me,” Micheal replies tersely, already past his quota for biting back smart remarks apparently. “Nothing can belong to me. So what the hell does it matter if I borrow it or if I ‘earn’ it and ask my owner to let me pretend it’s actually mine?”

“Guardian,” Alex corrects, but all the heat is out of his tone now. “Nobody _owns_ you, Guerin.”

“Yeah, right, of course not,” Micheal agrees without conviction. “No one owns me. My body is just entrusted to the guardianship of the good ol’ Global Resource Alliance for the Care of Extraterrestrials.”

With an acronym like GRACE, the program couldn’t _possibly_ be an evil, twisted, farce, after all. Michael’s seen the videos from the propaganda campaigns--been featured as one of the haggard faces in the videos of the crash survivors. It’s what made him such a popular request for the Antaran Family Placement program--except, of course, the people who saw that terrified young alien on their screens had all been expecting some timid little child who’d lap up their praise and coddling eagerly and be a Good Little Showpiece of how generous and benevolent his placement family was. 

Boy, were they disappointed to meet the _real_ Michael Guerin. 

“Look, I don’t know what your last camp was like, but if--”

“Not my first time around this block,” he replies. “Maybe it’s been a while since I was in the Southwest GRACE-US Camp, but I still know the score. I know who your family is; I know how things work here.”

“Then you know how _fucked_ you would have been if my dad or my brothers had been the one to notice the guitar gone.” 

Michael just shrugs, but he’s well aware. It was part of the reason he took it--get in trouble for something little, get reassigned from the bullshit work detail at the Warden’s house. Find a job assignment a little less in the limelight to give him more time for his _real_ work. 

“He left it out on the back porch,” Michael replies, “but I watched him leave for work hours ago. Figured why not?” 

“So I guess it’s true what they say about you,” Alex says with a frown. 

Michael can only imagine what’s been said about him, but he’s heard enough of it firsthand to have solid guesses. _Troublemaker. Problematic. Violent. Angry. Addict. Insane. Dangerous._ His personal favorite is still Max’s descriptor of _“suicidally idiotic”_ though. 

“Probably,” Michael says in response to Alex’s assumption, smirking to hide his nerves, “depends on who you’ve been talking to.” Before Alex can elaborate, Michael takes the opportunity to wonder, “Is it true what they say about _you_ ?” 

_Is it true that you’re the only Manes man with a soul? The only one who actually gives a shit about what’s best for the antarans instead of just blindly following your Daddy’s orders? The only one who sees us as people and not just animals in a cage to be trained and used and experimented on?_

_The only hope of this camp ever having a Warden who might just alleviate some of the unspeakable things going on in this miserable hell on earth and all the sister camps that are supposed to follow its lead?_

“Probably,” Alex replies with a smirk to mirror Michael’s, “depends on who you’ve been talking to,” he concludes, and Michael has to huff a laugh at having his own line used in retaliation.

As Alex walks away with the guitar--presumably to replace it and not to rat Michael out, though why Michael couldn’t say--Michael decides that there must be some truth to the stories they tell about Alex Manes. Actions that warrant the tone his name gets--something lighter than the hatred and fear that accompanies the names of his father and brothers when the antarans discuss them in camp. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An absolutely HUGE and never-ending thank you to the illustrious [Bisexualalienblast](https://bisexualalienblast.tumblr.com/) for the amazing, perfect gifs!!!


	2. Chapter 2

Alex comes around the back of the barn as Michael finishes stringing up his hammock--one of the few possessions he brought with him from the east coast camp--under the lean-to portion at the back.

“Something wrong with the bed in the bunk room?” Alex asks.

“I like having options,” Michael replies with a shrug, unwilling to say more about all the real reason he prefers the open air sometimes. “Is that a problem?” 

“No, not a problem--just--checking,” Alex says. “It’s been a little while since we had anybody helping out with the stables so, I really didn’t know if maybe something was up with bunkhouse.”

_ What’s it matter to you?  _ Michael wonders. 

“So, did you come all the way down here to comment on my hammock placement, or did you need something?” Michael asks, with a glance at the simple acoustic guitar Alex is holding, assuming it’s a prop for a melodramatic “this is my guitar, don’t touch it either” lecture. 

“Actually, I was bringing you this,” Alex says, offering the guitar to Michael. “I know it’s not as nice as Flint’s,” Alex says as Michael eyes it suspiciously, hesitating to reach out for it, “but I thought it’d be better than nothing, if you want it.” When Alex doesn’t retract the offer, Michael reaches slowly to take the guitar. 

“Why would you give me this?” Michael asks. 

Alex shrugs. “Figured if you wanted one badly enough to risk swiping it from the Lieutenant Warden, it was important.”

Alex isn’t wrong; in fact, Michael’s already been wondering how to swing getting his hands on a guitar again, but it still doesn’t make much sense. They’ve known each other for all of two days. 

“Why’re you being so nice to me?” Michael wonders, trying to understand the catch to this gift that he must be missing.

“Sometimes, people are just nice.”

“Not in my experience,” Michael retorts, mouth ahead of his brain, as ever. 

Alex shrugs. “Well, what? Do you  _ want  _ me to be an asshole?”

“No--just--making sure I’ve got the score.”

“No score,” Alex replies. “It’s been sitting in my closet for years, barely used because I don’t really have the patience or the skill for it. Why should I hoard it up there to take up space if you can use it?”

_ Because you're the warden’s human kid, and I’m just the orphan antaran who got placed to shovel shit in the stables. That’s why.  _

“Well, uh, thanks,” Michael says finally. 

“It’s not a big deal,” Alex says dismissively.

_ Yeah, it is. It’s a really big deal.  _

“Anything else you need?” Alex asks. “Or want? Or whatever?”

“Nope, all set,” Michael replies. “GRACE sent me with some stuff--and the bunkhouse was stocked with everything else for the job. It’s a nice setup.”

Alex raises a skeptical eyebrow, but Michael means it. Maybe the bunkhouse is no palace, but he’s got it all to himself instead of sharing with the three people it could hold--small kitchenette in one corner, decent sized bathroom to himself, wardrobe fitted with plenty of clothes, and a washer out back to do the laundry in. 

“It’s a lot better than some of the AWP spots I’ve been,” he says honestly. “And less crowded than the dorms at camp. I was wondering though--the two extra beds? Should I be expecting co-workers? ‘Cause it seems pretty manageable already.”

“We’ve never had more than one antaran at a time through AWP,” Alex says. “I think it was built for the whole staff to be AWP, but Dad’s been using Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard for decades--to make all the decisions he doesn’t have time to. He likes to keep things pretty small.”

Michael met Nancy and Carson Hubbard yesterday. They run the feed store in town as their main line of work, but they’re family friends of the Manes’, and it was made clear that they’re the ones who really handle the stables and livestock. It makes sense, from what Michael’s seen and heard so far. Warden Manes doesn’t seem the type to entrust his operations to antarans, no matter how well-qualified; but he does seem the type to be happy to have a stable boy to bully. At least it means Michael gets to keep enjoying the solitude. 

“Have you worked with horses before?” Alex asks.

“Nah, they just thought it’d be fun to throw a newbie in and entrust him with the Warden’s stock, of all people,” Michael replies with a smirk; it’s the kind of comment that he should really learn to filter when he’s talking to humans, but for a decade and counting he hasn’t managed it yet. Alex smiles and rolls his eyes though. 

“You’re just younger than the other antarans who’ve worked here,” Alex says, “that’s all. It’s unusual.”

“There was a stable at my AFP, so I was around them for a couple of years growing up.”

“Oh, you’ve got a placement family? That’s--”

“Not anymore,” Michael replies, more harshly than he intended.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

“Long story; a long time ago. It doesn’t matter,” he dismisses.

“So--uh--you like horses?” Alex says, in an obvious attempt to redirect the conversation that’s floundering; Michael kind of wishes he’d just leave him alone to give the guitar a try. 

“Better than I like humans,” Michael confirms. “You?”

“Same,” Alex says with a smile. “But as much as I like horses, they never seem to like me all that much.”

“Work on your confidence,” Michael replies. “It’s half the battle. Especially with horses like these. It seems like y’all like a challenge. Not a single easy-tempered one out of all five?”

“We used to have one--Matilda--who was really gentle,” Alex said, “but otherwise I think my dad probably does just like the project of breaking in the new ones. He never keeps horses for long; kinda learned not to get attached.”

“That’s a shame. All these horses around, and you don’t ever ride?”

“When you put it like that I guess it’s a little ridiculous not to. Maybe if I’m feeling adventurous sometime I’ll get you to point me to the horse least likely to toss me on my ass and give it all a whirl again.”

“Give me a couple weeks, and I’ll let you know,” Michael says. “But I can already tell you it won’t be Tango or Victor, for damn sure.”

He’d thought it was odd at first that the warden just named the horses on letters of the NATO alphabet, but from Alex’s tone this is more a casual pastime than something the family does for the love of it. Alex’s phone dings with a notification, and he excuses himself to head back toward the house. Michael goes to stash the guitar in the bunkhouse, taking just a few moments to strum some chords--and see that it’s in desperate need of tuning. He lays it across the bed and leaves to go finish closing up the barn, unable to keep the small smile off his face as he works. He still can’t quite believe he’s got a guitar.

And maybe even a friend to go with it… 

* * *

When the phone on the wall of the bunkhouse rings, Michael jumps, thoroughly unprepared for the intrusive, persistent ring. He thinks of ignoring it, but after the fifth or sixth time it rings he decides he may as well answer. 

“Hello?” he says, realizing too late maybe he should’ve answered with something more professional like “Manes’ ranch”? What if it’s a work line?

“Michael?” Max’s familiar voice asks. “That you?”

“Hey, yeah, Max, how the hell did you get this number? I didn’t even really notice there was a phone until it rang.”

“Sheriff Valenti and Warden Manes are old friends,” Max replies. “She got the number to me.”

“Guessing she also talked the warden into giving me this job?” Michael says. “Which explains a lot.”

“You’re perfectly qualified for it,” Max says, defensive. “It’s a great starting position to put you in touch with the right people if you play your cards right, Michael. You could go really far with this. You  _ should  _ go really far with this. You’ve got a lot more potential than you give yourself--”

“Thanks,  _ Mom _ . I get it. You believe in me,” he says to derail Max’s pep talk. He appreciates the thought, but Max goes more than a little overboard. 

“I really do, you know. Isobel, too.”

“How far out on a limb did you two go to get me transferred here, Max?” Michael asks. “You shouldn’t’ve done that.”

“You’re our family, Michael; sue me if I wanted to try and get you on this side of the country. I know I haven’t worked it out to come by yet, but at least it’s an option. Hopefully, I can come see you in person soon, okay? Isobel wants to come, too.”

“Sure you wanna be seen with that Guerin boy?” Michael teases. “I hear he’s a troublemaker, and you’re a fine, upstanding antaran, Cadet Evans.”

“You’re my brother,” Max replies, “but, you know, you could always try the option of just staying  _ out  _ of trouble for once in your life?”

“All these years, and not once has that plan  _ ever _ worked,” Michael reminds, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “But what the hell, maybe millionth time’s the charm.”

“Maybe so,” Max says. “Seriously though, are you settling in okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good, Max, really. Things okay with you? Isobel?”

“Yeah, we’re good, really good,” Max says before launching into an update about the latest plans for the antaran cadet program with the sheriff’s office. Michael listens with as much interest as he can muster, glad to hear the excitement and animation in Max’s voice. For all his complaining, he really does hope Max works it out to come visit in person. Michael really can’t recall exactly how long it’s been since he saw them in person. Two years? Maybe three? 

“Oh, damn, I just saw the time; you should probably go; early days and all on a ranch, right?” 

“Right.”

“You like the work?”

“I’ve only been here for two days, but, yeah, so far so good. I think it’ll be good if I can stay on the warden’s good side.” 

“That’s really, great, Michael.”

“Hey, really, thanks again, Max.”

“First time in a long time I’ve actually been able to  _ do  _ something, so...I’m just glad it worked, and you don’t hate it. I’ll call you tomorrow? And I’m gonna give Isobel the number too.”

“Sounds good.”

* * *

The work detail for the warden’s stables isn’t difficult, not by any means. Honestly, if Michael were working for someone else, it would probably be a pretty great job. The Manes family keeps a small stable, breeding and breaking an average of stallions; raising a small herd of cattle; all “salt of the earth family traditions” as the warden deems them, even though he doesn’t do much of the work himself. He damn sure likes to micromanage it though, starting every day off with an inspection, sometimes going out for a ride, but more often just informing Michael what a subpar job he’s doing maintaining the facilities before going to discuss the day-to-day with the property manager. 

It doesn’t take long to realize that Warden Manes comes to start his day with a good power trip much more than any desire for maintaining the family tradition. Power over Michael, power over whichever horse they’re in the process of breaking in, power over which cattle live and die this time around. It’s the same way he manages the camp if what Michael’s heard is true. He really isn’t all that surprised.

It also doesn’t take long to realize that it’s how the warden runs his household, too. Michael hears the shouting often enough in the first couple of weeks, but he’s a little surprised the first night it’s coming from the stables when comes back in from patching a rotted fencepost in the paddock.

“How the  _ hell _ do you  _ fail  _ P.E., son?” Warden Manes thunders from the empty stall in the back corner. “Explain that to me.”

“Dad, I told you--I just--I lost track of how many classes I missed and--”

“It should be the easiest goddamn class for a boy your age,” Warden Manes goes on. The smack of skin on skin  _ does  _ come as a surprise, and the lack of outrage or protest from Alex leads to the instant conclusion that this isn’t new. 

_ This is why that last stall stays empty? _

Michael wishes he had the reasoning to dismiss the thought, but he doesn’t. 

“Dad, I’m gonna retake the class next semester,” Alex says, voice trembling just slightly. “It’ll be--it’ll be--”

“Tell me where you were instead of class,” Warden Manes demands.  _ Smack.  _ “Off getting something else  _ pierced _ ?” he wonders. There’s a quieter thud of a punch to a soft spot, and the grunt from Alex that suggests it landed near his stomach. “Or maybe getting yourself some more  _ jewelry  _ and  _ eyeliner _ ?”  _ Smack. _

Michael acts before he really thinks it through, ducking into the tack room and sending a can of saddle soap flying to the floor with the  _ ping _ of distraction he needs. He not-so-softly mutters a curse word, and like the theatrical villain he is, Warden Manes appears within minutes. 

“What the  _ fuck _ is going on in here?” he demands. 

“Nothing, I just knocked over the polish,” Michael says “and--”

He’s honestly surprised at just how quickly Warden Manes strikes him, hard and quick to the left side of his face, sending Michael reeling into the side of the stall, gripping tack to keep his feet. It’s not the first time he’s drawn fire on someone else’s behalf, but  _ damn  _ he’d figured Warden Manes would at least yell at him a while before he took his first lick at Michael.

“Clean this up, you useless piece of shit,” Warden Manes demands. “Do you know how much that  _ costs?”  _ he demands. 

_ Only a few bucks...it’s not fucking gold.. _

“More than you’re worth, that’s for sure,” Warden Manes rages on. “I guess I’ll just have to take it out of your hide,” he goes on, shoving Michael to the ground hard even as Michael was already kneeling to start mopping up the mess. Michael sees the kick coming from his peripheral, relaxes into it as best he can, but it still leaves him gasping, head on the cold concrete floor as he tries not to vomit. He honestly figures that’s it, but Warden Manes lands another kick, and another, and  _ another  _ until Michael’s on his side with his back to the wall. 

_ Jesus fucking christ. How is Alex still alive after seventeen years of this? _

As if conjured by Michael’s thought of him, Alex’s voice penetrates the scene.

“Dad, if you keep going, there’s gonna be paperwork,” he says quietly from the doorway. 

It seems to break Warden Manes’s trance, and the warden turns slowly away from Michael to look at his son. He nods and moves to go, turning from the doorway to order, “Get this cleaned up, and learn some fucking coordination, or there’ll be hell to pay next time, understood?”

Michael nods, and Warden Manes leaves with Alex following in his wake.

By the time Michael makes it back to his bunk, there’s an ice pack, a bottle of water, and four brown pills stamped with “Advil” waiting on the crate beside his bed that functions as a nightstand. He smiles at the gift. He’d’ve done it anyway, but it’s kind of nice to be appreciated. 

The next morning Warden Manes comes for his usual round. He studies Michael’s face for a moment or two before wondering, “You’re looking a little banged up. Where’d you get the shiner, Guerin?”

The silence grows between them for just a moment, and Michael can spot the question for the test that it is. So he shrugs. “One of those new ponies is a real challenge,” he lies, voice carefully even. 

Warden Manes nods, walking away without the usual morning barrage of criticism, leaving Michael to go about his day. 

* * *

The next time Warden Manes vents his anger on Michael, he jerks him down off his horse as Michael is about to take Tango for a ride.

“You think you can just go out gallivanting around whenever the hell you feel like it?” he demands, shoving Michael and sending him sprawling into the dust of the barnyard. 

“I wasn’t--I mean, not just for the hell of it. Mr. Hubbard gave me a schedule and said I should rotate taking them out for rides so--”

Warden Manes lands a kick that puts Michael flat on his back, gasping, and before he can really get his bearings Warden Manes grabs him by the collar of his flannel shirt to haul him to his feet. 

“I don’t want to hear any of your lip, understand me? Just get your lazy ass back in that barn and get to work,” he orders, shoving Michael away before mounting Tango himself and heading off in a trail of dust.

“What the  _ fuck  _ was that,” Michael mutters as he heads back toward the barn. 

“It’s not personal.” 

Michael jumps at the unexpected sound and turns to see Flint Manes watching with a somewhat amused grin. 

“But you sure as shit better be working hard on something when he gets back,” Flint warns. 

Michael sets to work mucking out the stalls. When he hears Warden Manes ride back in, he isn’t quite sure whether to make himself scarce or if that would just make it worse. Before he can really decide on a course of action Warden Manes barks his name.

“Coming!” he calls back.

“Coming,  _ sir _ ,” Warden Manes corrects, “or Warden. Got that?”

“Yes, sir,” Michael replies, taking the reins Warden Manes hands him. 

“Have you been working with this horse?” he demands, and Michael hesitates for just a moment before nodding. 

All he’s done is follow the advice and instructions of the Hubbards; he assumed it was what the warden expected him to do. 

“I can tell. Keep up the good work,” Warden Manes says, and Michael flinches as his hand comes toward him, but it’s just to pat Michael’s shoulder as he walks past him up toward the house.

_ Seriously, what the fuck… _

* * *

“Hey, Max,” Michael greets when he answers the phone, falling into the rhythm now that Max calls so often to check-in and catch up. “Save the world yet?”

“Oh, ya know, still working on it,” he replies. “How’re things?”

“Same old; same old,” Michael replies. “You call too often for anything interesting to happen in between.”

“That’s good; it means you’re staying out of trouble,” Max replies. “Look, I--uh--was just wondering, do you ever come into town?”

“I can’t, remember? Not without supervision.” 

“I know; I just thought supplies or something--I dunno.”

“The warden’s so busy I’m not exactly holding my breath for him to want to escort me in for something. Besides, the Hubbards run most of the errands and all, but they’re not authorized supervisors, at least not that I know of. I could ask, I guess. Offer to help out on supply runs. Why do you care if I’m in town?” 

“Just--thought it’d be nice to actually  _ see _ you.”

“I’m always in the same place,” he reminds. “You’re the one with the mobile job, cadet.” 

“I can’t just come to the ranch for a social call while I’m on duty with the sheriff, though, and I asked her to mention a visit to the warden, but they say they don’t want to mess up your routine while you’re still settling in and all.”

“You can just  _ say  _ they think I’m gonna be a bad influence on you,” Michael retorts bitterly. “I’m not stupid; I know why they wouldn’t exactly be invested in getting the Antaran white knight out to spend time with his lowly, trouble-making cowboy brother.”

“You’re not the kind of person they make you out to be,” Max says. “I wish you’d try to stop living up to it.”

“You know there are plenty of reasons for the way I am, Max,” Michael reminds. “I’m glad you’re doing good at this job and all, but they’re always going to see you as antaran before anything else. It’s just a matter of whether you can convince them that there’s enough return on investment to support antaran integration programs.”

“I don’t believe that,” Max says. “It’s not just PR stunts and--and pointless antics. We can  _ change  _ things, Michael. I’ve seen it happening a little bit at a time; if we do it the  _ right _ way, we can make a real difference.”

“That’s the spirit, Max,” Michael says without conviction. “Fight the good fight.”

“Michael--”

“Look, I don’t have the energy for this, okay? Not tonight; it’s been a long day, and I’ve got an early one tomorrow. If you can get our owners to arrange a playdate, I’d love to see ya. Otherwise, I’ll just talk to you later.”

“Michael, they’re not our--”

“Good _ night _ , Max.”

Max sighs on the other end of the line. “Night, Michael.”

* * *

Michael wakes with a start as the door to the bunkhouse flings open, banging loudly against the wall as Warden Manes storms in, a hulking shadow in the doorway against the pale dawn light behind him for just a moment before he’s inside, slamming the door shut behind him with equal force. 

“Get your lazy ass out of that bed!” Warden Manes demands, even though Michael is already scrambling. “What the  _ fuck  _ do you think you’re doing lazing around in here when there’s work to be done?!”

“I--I usually start at six-thirty and--”

“You’re wasting daylight,” Jesse informs him. 

Michael bites back a retort that it doesn’t matter--that the point is that he gets his work done, and he’s made it three weeks without a major fuck up so what the hell does it matter to the warden whether he starts at six or six-thirty, but the nearly palpable anger radiating off of Warden Manes leaves no doubt that this unwanted intrusion isn’t actually about Michael’s work. 

Michael dresses quickly, waiting for Warden Manes to say something else, but he just stands firmly between Micahel and the door, glowering. He doesn’t move when Michael’s clearly ready to go out, and Michael hesitates. 

“Come here,” Warden Manes orders, and Michael does as he’s told, slowly moving to stand where the Warden indicated. The Warden grabs his chin roughly and forcing Michael to look up at him in the way Michael’s already coming to absolutely  _ detest _ , but he just grits his teeth and stamps down the urge to pull away. 

“Tell me what you spend so much time talking to your siblings about,” he asks, voice quiet but deadly.

“Nothing, I--” 

The reply is cut off with a sharp smack across his face that leaves Michael’s right eye watering as he hisses at the sting of pain. When he takes a step back, Warden Manes jerks him back toward him, forcing his face up again, leaning into Michael’s face so that Michael can feel the disgusting heat of his breath on his skin.

“Don’t you fucking  _ dare  _ lie to me, Guerin. You talk to one or  _ both  _ of them for at least half an hour every few days--sometimes more than that. Your life isn’t that interesting, so let’s try this again:  _ Tell. Me. What. You. Spend. So. Much. Time. Talking. About. _ ”

“ _ They _ talk mostly,” Michael answers honestly. “I don’t talk much. The long calls are just--well, it’s kinda hard to shut Max up sometimes, so I just let him ramble. Once he found out I had access to a phone it was kind of inevitable. He’s a worrywart, so I have to let him talk my ear off every few days.”

Warden Manes snatches up Michael’s collar, jerking him around to slam him back against the door so hard it knocks Michael’s breath away for a moment.

“ _ You  _ do not get to tell  _ me  _ what  _ you  _ ‘have’ to do,” he growls. “ _ I  _ determine exactly what  _ privileges  _ your performance has earned and what it hasn’t, understood?”

“Yeah,” Michael replies, still focused on breathing normally. The response earns him another smack. 

“ _ Warden or Sir,” _ he reminds. “Are you such an idiot that you can’t remember simple instructions?”

“Yes, sir,” Michael corrects, but then realizes it’s the wrong answer to the new question. “I mean--no, sir, I’m not--I just forgot.”

“What have you told them about this job?” 

“Just that I like working with the horses,” Michael answers. “And being back in the same town as them and not being stuck at camp. Nothing about--about anything...else.”

“Are they curious about what it’s like to work for the warden?” 

“Yeah--I mean--yes, sir, but I tell them that you’re a busy man--with--with all the stuff at camp so--so I don’t work with you much directly.”

“And my children? Living on our property?”

“I help Flint and Alex if they want to ride or something, but otherwise, that’s -- that’s none of my business; it’s AWP, not AFP. I’m--I’m just here to do a job, and Max and Isobel know that.”

He studies Michael’s face, looking for a lie he won’t find. Maybe he’s been lying his ass off to Max and Isobel, but he’s not lying to the warden--at least not right now.

“You’re exactly right for once, Guerin,” the warden says finally. “If they want to keep calling you to prattle on about their little PR stunt positions, I won’t stop it. The sheriff says your brother wants to visit--I’ll even consider that, too. But the details of this job and my household are  _ no one’s _ business; I expect the  _ utmost  _ discretion from you. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

He pushes Michael roughly to the side, clearing the way to open the door again. 

“Get to work,” he orders over his shoulder as he leaves. “If your ass isn’t in those stables in ten minutes, it’ll make your morning so far look like a picnic.”


	3. Chapter 3

After weeks of making due with solitaire and just wishing for a book to read in his downtime, Michael decides to risk temporarily misappropriating one from the Manes’ house. He’s been inside several times now--always under the supervision of the maid, Constance; Michael assumes-given Warden Manes’ general disdain and distrust-he wouldn’t want an antaran alone in his house so he has a human cleaning person instead. She’s clearly been told Michael’s at her beck and call-and she’s nice enough even if she does have a pretty surly demeanor and demand Michael stay within eyeshot at all times. Still, it’s enough that he knows where the spare key is kept and what the alarm code is. 

It’s almost impressive how the unyielding demeanor of the warden permeates even into the house, with its unmistakably utilitarian design. There are almost no details to reveal the lives of the men who live here, which from the look of it, no one spends much time in the common areas anyway. Maybe it doesn’t bother them, but, hell, even Michael scoops a little cactus up to plant in a cup and stick on the counter in the bunkhouse. It all reminds Michael of the pictures in the department store catalog the Evanses gave them so many years ago to pick out things for their bedrooms--like something maintained for show, never really used or worn into any sense of familiarity or home, the same stark feel as the dorms at camp. 

He peruses the shelves around the house for longer than he should, trying to decide which book might be interesting enough to keep his attention but go unmissed by the family. There are an impressive number of options, and they’re not all for show, several seem well-worn. He had always kind of assumed Warden Manes to be a “man of action” and not much of an intellectual. It seems maybe he’s both, which is simultaneously interesting, terrifying, and infuriating. No simple “just following orders and doing what I was taught” for a man who reads Machiavelli and Sun Tzu, not to mention more biographies of renowned world leaders than Michael can count. 

“You know, you could just ask me for stuff,” Alex says, making Michael jump and drop the copy of Atlas Shrugged he’d been carefully sliding off one of the built in shelves in the den. 

Alex doesn’t seem to be angry. His tone invites banter more than an argument, and, rather than cross the room and encroach on Michael’s personal space, he crosses his arms to lean casually against the wall. Michael reaches to pick up the book from the floor, taking a deep breath to try and calm his nerves and thanking his lucky stars Alex is the one of the three that found him here. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be at school?” Michael mutters, embarrassed at his inability to control his fearful reaction. 

“Aren’t _you_ supposed to be at _work_ ?” Alex retorts. “You’re definitely not supposed to be _in here_.”

Michael doesn’t have an answer for that, and asking whether or not Alex plans to tell the others would sound just a little too pathetic for Michael’s pride to allow, so he just stands in silence, debating whether to just put the book back and leave. 

“What d’you want that for, anyway?” Alex wonders with a nod to the paperback in Michael’s hand, he uncrosses his arms and starts fiddling with the strings of his hoodie. 

“Kindling for a simple, cave man fire,” Michael answers evenly, rolling his eyes, trying to recover some of his bravado now that his initial fear is waning. “I hear nothing lights up quite as well as Rand—although Huxley is probably a close second.”

“I’ve got more books in my room,” Alex offers, instead of returning Michael’s sarcasm in kind. “If you want to try something a little less-” he cuts himself off before he finishes the sentence, but Michael just raises his eyebrow, waiting, until Alex finally says “boring.”

“No, come on, don’t censor yourself for an idiot antaran, Alex. What were you really gonna say? A little less _challenging_ ?” Michael guesses. “A little less _advanced?_ ”

“I never said you were an idiot,” Alex says, steady even in the face of Michael’s anger. “I _know_ you’re not not an idiot,” he adds. “Didn’t mean to offend you; I was just trying to help, so maybe don’t jump down my throat.”

Michael sighs, unable to maintain his annoyance with Alex for long. “Sore spot,” he mumbles by way of explanation. 

“I’ve got a copy of Atlas Shrugged in my room, too,” Alex says. “It’s got my notes from AP English last year, but if that doesn’t bother you, it’s a lot less likely anybody notices it’s missing. Come on,” he beckons, jerking his head toward the hall and leading the way.

Michael hesitates a moment or two before reshelving the book and following Alex’s lead. It’s the third door on the left, in the back corner of the house. Michael isn’t allowed back here when he helps Constance, she always sends him back outside once she finishes the common areas. He isn’t quite sure what he expected to find, but it definitely wasn’t _this_. Sure he’d expected some bits of the room to reflect Alex, but he kind of assumed that Warden Manes would insist on the space being at least somewhat tame and uniform. Instead, the walls are covered with band posters for Panic!At the Disco, My Chemical Romance, and Fallout Boy. Movie posters for Donnie Darko, 10 Things I Hate About You, Hellboy II, and Star Wars. All spotted with playbills and flyers from the local high school’s theatre productions, random magazine clippings, and polaroid pictures. It’s absolute chaos--and yet it’s also very carefully curated chaos. 

A few seconds more though and Michael notices the room is impeccable. No clothes on the floor; bed made with the same militaristic precision as they ingrain in the camp dorms; no clutter on the bookshelf or any of the surfaces. Maybe there is some of the warden’s influence in here after all--Alex meeting his father’s minimum standards in exchange for having some of his own personality decorating the space?

“Wow,” Michael says, glancing around. “Now the bare walls in the bunkhouse just seem _extra_ pathetic.”

“I’ve probably got some extra posters lying around,” Alex replies, “if you want. Or I mean, we could even order some or something. If you tell me what you like.”

“Not huge into the emo rock thing,” Michael replies, “but, if you find some Garth Brooks memorabilia in the attic, hit me up. Don’t order anything though. They’ll just ask where it came from....”

“Yeah,” Alex agrees, “probably better not to rock the boat. Sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Micheal says with a shrug. “It’s not a big deal, anyway.”

_Not in the grand scheme of issues at this placement._

“Let’s see,” Alex says, pushing the door almost shut so he can scan the packed bookshelf in the corner behind it. “Here we go.”

No sooner has Alex handed Michael the well-worn paperback than the sound of the front door opening and closing jolts through the house, and the Warden’s voice calls sharply, “Alex?”

“Shit,” Alex mutters, eyes alight with terror. “The school must’ve called him. You better hide.”

Michael dives under the bed in an instant, and Alex calls back, “In here!” to his father. His voice is strained, and Michael peeks out from his hiding spot to see Alex frozen where he stands in the middle of the room, clearly panicking in silence. 

_Fuck. The warden is going to rip him a new one for skipping school._

“Do some jumping jacks to work up a little bit of a sweat,” Michael hisses from his hiding spot, “then get under the covers. Say you’ve got a fever.”

“He’ll just—”

“Trust me, Alex!” he urges.

_Neither one of us wants to hear him tell you to meet him in the stables._

“Fine,” Alex mutters, before doing as Michael says.

Warden Manes walks in, and Michael rolls as far back toward the wall as he can, barely even daring to breathe, despite the fact that he’s well out of sight. His eyes fix on the warden’s dust-covered black boots as they approach the bed and come to a halt a couple feet away, not far from the worn black converse Alex kicked off at the end of the bed before diving under the covers. 

“Hey, Dad,” Alex says, managing to sound more pathetic than panicked, which is a good start. 

“If you’re sick, why didn’t you call me and go to the doctor?” Warden Manes demands.

“‘Cause it’s nothing major, just a fever I think. I didn’t want to bug you at work, and I thought if I came home for lunch and took a nap and some Tylenol it’d take care of it, and I’d go back. But I still feel like shit, and then I fell asleep and forgot to call you.”

“Well, the school _did_ call me, and they wanted to know where the hell you were. I don’t care for looking like an incometent parent who can’t keep tabs on his son, Alex.”

“Sorry.”

“I’m using my lunch break to check on you,” Warden Manes says, “and I haven’t got time to coddle you. Take your temperature again, and bring me the thermometer in the kitchen.”

Despite watching the warden’s boots as he walks back out, Michael still jolts just a little when the door shuts hard upon his exit, and he peeks out just briefly before rolling out from under the bed. Alex is already in the adjoining bathroom searching--a bit frantically--for a thermometer, which he locates by the time Michael has come to join him. He takes the thermometer from Alex without commenting on how Alex’s hand is shaking slightly.

“What’re you doing?” Alex asks as Michael places the thermometer in his mouth. “You have to _leave_ , Guerin!”

Michael holds up a finger in the universal “one second” gesture, and Alex gives him the benefit of the doubt, frowning slightly as he waits. Thirty seconds later, the thermometer beeps, and Michael offers it to Alex with a grin.

“Antarans run hot,” he says by way of explaining the 101.2 reading on the screen. “Get goin,” he adds, nudging Alex, who’s now got an adorably hopeful smile on his face-infinitely more preferable than the previous barely-contained panic.

“Thanks,” Alex says, as Michael heads for the window, slipping out and heading for the barn without a backward glance. 

* * *

It’s not until hours later, bored out of his mind at the end of the day again, that Michael realizes that he left the books in Alex’s room. He debates sneaking over to the house, tapping at Alex’s window. But the warden and Flint are both home now, and he doesn’t know enough about their schedules or how thin the walls are or anything like that to justify the risk. Better to wait until next time the house is empty and sneak into Alex’s room now that he knows the way. He settles for playing the guitar, practicing with a homemade capo that he rigged from a pencil and a couple rubber bands. 

“Guerin?” Alex says—voice cutting across the music and making Michael jump so hard that he nearly drops the guitar as he turns to face Alex. “Sorry,” he says. “I knocked, but I guess you didn’t hear, and I didn’t want to bang too loud.” 

“Need something?” Michael assumes.

“You forgot your book when you had to sneak out this afternoon,” Alex replies, and Michael registers the stack of paperbacks in Alex’s hands.. “So I thought I’d bring it—and a couple others.”

“Oh, uh, thanks,” Michael says. “Have a seat, if you want,” he adds waving to the vacant twin bed next to his.

“Thanks,” Alex says, moving to take the offered spot as he hands over the books.

Michael readies his defenses, barely holding back a sigh, expecting the books Alex offers to be something obviously easier than Atlas Shrugged--early reader chapter books or something.

“I just kind of had to guess what you might like,” Alex goes on. “Went for variety. But let me know if there’s any genre in particular you like--or don’t like.”

Michael examines the stack, and to his surprise, reads the titles of Atlas Shrugged, Fahrenheit 451, Anna Karenina, Brave New World, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and a well-worn copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. Alex must have anticipated Michael’s expectation that the books would be an attempt to give him easier things, because he says, “I know Harry Potter is technically a kids’ book, but that one starts the series and they get darker as they go. It’s not a comment on your reading level, just thought you might like it. It’s one of my favorites. I don’t know if fantasy and magic is your kind of thing though?”

Michael grins. “Kid who’s been shoved into a closet for years by his shitty adoptive family finally figures out that he’s got the power to take on the bullies of the world,” Michael summarizes. “Of course it’s my thing. It’s the orphan antaran dream,” he says with a grin.

“You’ve read it?” Alex asks, eyes alight with excitement. “Just the first one? Or--”

“I got about halfway through the fifth one right before I got transferred out here,” Michael replies. “Do you have that one?”

“Of course! It’s the best one, if you ask me, actually, so my copy is worn out as hell, but I can go get it. I’ll be right back, and--”

Michael grabs Alex’s wrist without conscious thought, stopping him before he can rise to leave. Their eyes meet, and Michael drops his grip immediately.

“Sorry, I--uh--I didn’t mean to--”

“That’s okay,” Alex says. 

“It’s just--one trip a night is probably risky enough, right? Pretty sure your dad wouldn’t care much for us talking--much less you lending me books and stuff.” 

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“But um, maybe you could bring it the next time you come?” Michael wonders. “Or is this a one-and-done, thing?” he adds, trying to get his hopes in check. “This probably more than fulfilled your antaran acts of kindness quota, huh?”

“No, it isn’t a one-time thing,” Alex says. “As long as you’re okay with me invading your space every once in a while to visit and bring books and stuff.”

“It’s not _my_ space,” Michael points out. “Hell, the door doesn’t even lock; you know that.”

“That’s not my point,” Alex replies with a hint of exasperation. “If you’d rather not have somebody barging in, I can respect that. It doesn’t mean I won’t still lend you books and stuff, just that--”

“I’m cool with it, no worries,” Michael replies. “Mi casa es su casa,” he adds with a flourish of his hand to the bunk room at large, but Alex frowns. 

“Well, if you change your mind, you can tell me,” Alex says. “I mean it.”

“Okay.”

Michael turns his attention back to the books Alex has offered to share like it’s no big deal. Max loves Anna Karenina, which means Michael will probably _hate_ it. Still, it’ll give them something to talk about, Michael supposes. He’s read Fahrenheit 451, but it’s been a while. The only Shakespeare he’s ever read was Romeo and Juliet, so hopefully this play is less fucking depressing. He feels Alex’s gaze on him, studying Michael as Michael examines the books.

“What?” Michael asks, unsure what about his perusing of the titles could be so interesting. 

“Can I ask--I just was curious--who taught you to read?” 

“Had a tutor for a while, believe it or not,” Michael answers wryly, “me and my brother and sister, when we got our first placement family. We learned together--the basics anyway--and I just kept reading even after...”

“After?” Alex prods when Michael trails off before amending, “Sorry, it’s none of my business.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Michael says with a shrug. “There’s just not much reason to talk about it so I usually don’t,” he explains. 

_Most humans are more than satisfied with the summary stored on the servers and in the identification chips--if they even care enough to read that-- much less the full stories and explanations._

But he’s learning more and more that Alex Manes isn’ts like “most humans.”

“I got flagged for behavioral issues,” Michael expounds. “That wasn’t really what my placement parents signed up for, I guess. So they requested a termination of the AFP placement.”

“How old were you?”

“Twelve, I think? But we’d only been placed a year or so. We were on the ship that was late to the party.”

“The ‘97 crash?”

“Yep.”

“They say all the ships that hit in ‘47 were from the initial exodus, and all those that crashed since were stuck in the ships that had mechanical issues or got off course or were later waves of evacuations.”

Michael nods, “Yeah, that’s what they say.”

“So what happened on your ship?”

“I don’t know really,” Michael says with a shrug. “Not many survived from our crash--you’ve probably seen the footage they aired on all the news outlets?” 

Michael’s seen it all more times than he’d care to count--even had it played for him by morbidly curious humans who wanted grim details. He doesn’t get that vibe from Alex though, not as if Alex is hoping to be entertained by the story of Michael’s tragic past--more just a genuine curiosity, for whatever reason. Honestly, he’s surprised Alex doesn’t recognize him—even if his hair is still cropped pretty short. Alex must _really_ make an effort to keep a distance from his family’s professional life, if he’s somehow managed to miss the articles that brought Michael and his siblings into the global spotlight.

“It was a mess, to say the least,” Michael goes on. “We were the last life raft off the planet; most of the antarans on board weren’t in great health to begin with, but a lot who did survive were flagged as candidates for the medical research division, or so they told us.”

“So they told you?” he repeats.

“I don’t actually remember anything before the crash--same with my brother and sister. We got all our initial information secondhand from antarans in camp and humans who placed us.”

Silence grows for a moment, and Michael wonders whether Alex has satiated his curiosity for now. Then, Alex goes on, “So what happened to the three of you once the placement was terminated?” 

“Oh, they didn’t terminate their placements; they’re fine. Permanent AFP that transitioned to AWP. Glowing success stories.”

“They separated you? I thought that wasn’t allowed--separating antaran families for AFP.”

Michael shrugs. “Nah, there’s no rules against it or anything; it’s just ‘frowned upon.’”

“That’s _bullshit,_ ” Alex declares angrily. 

“I think they care more about that principle of not separating when they’re looking at dividing parents and kids, not siblings, and our real parents are--I dunno, dead or--something. I guess.”

“I’m sorry.”

Michael shrugs. “Hard to miss parents you can’t remember,” he deflects. “Besides, my brother has a pretty good “mom mode” in his own right. Don’t think I could take much more.”

Silence grows between them again, and Michael presses his luck just a bit by wondering, “Can I ask _you_ something?”

“About my mom?” Alex guesses.

“Not that it’s any of my business,” Michael says, offering Alex the same out Alex gave him.

“She died,” Alex says, “when I was eight. A car accident.”

“I’m sorry,” Michael says because there’s not much else to say. He’s more than a little glad to hear it that at least it wasn’t the kind of death that Jesse Manes couldn’t have caused and covered up. 

“Thanks,” Alex says politely, voice careful and measured.

 _Is she the one who taught you to be so kind for no reason?_ Michael wonders. 

“Hey, so, how serious were you about helping me pick the horse least likely to dump me on my ass?” Alex wonders, steering the conversation to less solemn topics. 

“Pretty serious, since it’s kind of my job,” Michael says. “You working up your courage?” he asks with a grin at the prospect.

“Maybe,” Alex says with a shrug, he bites at his lip, like he’s thinking it wasn’t the best suggestion--maybe a little nervous, but it just makes his lips look almost kiss-swollen and red--as if Alex’s face needed any more enticing features--what with the elegant cheekbones and dramatic eyelashes that have already driven Michael to distraction more than once. With effort, he looks away, before he can get caught staring. 

“I think you could do pretty well with Whiskey,” Michael says, picking at lint on the bedspread to distract himself. 

“Even if I haven’t ridden a horse in about four years?”

“There may be a learning curve, and a few rounds of me having to run you down if she bolts. You can always try her out in the corral first if you want.”

“We’ll see.” Alex stifles a yawn and rises to his feet. “I should probably get back up to the house.”

“Yeah, it’s late,” Michael agrees. As Alex walks toward the door he adds, “Hey, did your Dad buy the fever story?”

“He was plenty suspicious,” Alex answers, turning, “but he didn’t push it much--had to get back to camp for something after his lunch break and must’ve had a pretty decent day after. I would’ve been toast if you hadn’t been so quick to think.”

“I got to be a bit of an expert at being a bad influence in that arena with some of my placement siblings,” Michael confides. “Good to know I’m not getting rusty, I guess.” 

“All kinds of tricks up your sleeve, huh? Maybe you could teach me a couple.”

“I’d bet Warden Manes is a pretty hard sell,” Michael says. “The fever thing is honestly my best trick. Maybe quit while we’re ahead.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Why’d you skip out, anyway?” Michael wonders. “What’s worse than pissing off the warden?

“I wasn’t really thinking it through so much as just reacting,” Alex replies. “There’s this asshole guy who--well, it doesn't matter, really. I just didn’t have the energy to deal with his bullshit today, so I ditched class.”

“Well, sorry about the asshole guy,” Michael says, “but thank you, really, for the books. I appreciate it.”

“It’s no big deal,” Alex replies, “and, uh, not that I think they’ll notice anyway, but if they do, you can tell Dad or Flint I gave them to you. You don’t need to take the fall for it. If they get pissed, they get pissed,” he says nonchalantly, like it couldn’t bring some very real pain down on him all for the sake of shielding Michael. 

“I don’t mind; it’s worth it not to be bored out of my skull.”

“I’m serious. If they think you’re sneaking in the house and stealing—”

“Would it be worse than them thinking you’re friends with me? Cause I get the feeling they wouldn’t take a liking to that either--even if I hadn’t already put together that you only ever talk to me when they’re not around to see.”

“It’s nothing personal.” Alex says, with the good grace to look a little embarrassed. “I didn’t realize you’d noticed. Sorry.” 

“I’m not offended,” Michael replies, “just observant.”

“It’s not fair, not at all, but you’re right. Dad wouldn’t like it. Flint either.”

“Exactly, so at least with my story only one of us has to take a fall,” Michael points out.

“Better for both of us to share it than what my dad would probably do if he thinks you’re sneaking in the house—hell, even if he only found out you paid attention to the alarm code, much less that you went in on your own and took something…” Alex actually shudders slightly at the prospect.

“How about I just focus on _not_ getting caught with the books, and we won’t have to worry about it,” Michael says. 

“Yeah,” Alex says, “and don’t risk going in again?” he adds- more of a plea than a directive. “It’s _really_ not worth it, and you can just tell me if there’s something you need-or want.”

“Guitar, books,” Michael lists off, “what else could a guy need?”

“Acetone?” Alex wonders, to Michael’s surprise.

“Didn’t anybody ever tell you not to give acetone to antarans?” Michael asks. “They say it’s just asking for trouble.”

“Even _if_ I bought all the stories about it enhancing powers or inciting rage or encouraging dependency issues and all that, I don’t see how that’s any different than humans and alcohol.”

“An excellent point that most humans don’t want to accept, unfortunately.”

“Which works better for antarans, ibuprofen or acetone?” Alex asks.

“Acetone,” Michael admits, “but it’s really not a big deal.”

“I’ll grab some after school tomorrow,” Alex says, “and bring it when I drop off the Harry Potter books if that’s okay?” 

“You don’t need _my_ permission to do _me_ a _favor_ ,” Michael says, “but yeah, of course it’s okay.”

“See you tomorrow then. Night, Guerin.”

“Night.”

* * *

Maybe he’s going to hell for it, but Michael just doesn’t have the same urge to draw fire away from Flint as he does to protect Alex. Of course, Flint’s been none too kind since Michael came, and from the tone Alex has when he speaks his brother’s name, Flint has taken to following in his father’s footsteps. In all honesty, Michael’s a little surprised to hear Warden Manes going after his eldest son at all. Still, he slips out the back of the stables and to the relative safety of the bunkhouse leaving Flint to his fate with whatever level of temper Warden Manes needs to vent tonight.

Not long after Michael settles in, the door of the bunkhouse slams open, and he hastily stashes his book in the folds of the sofa as Flint storms in.

“Um, hi?” Michael says, rising to his feet, unsure what exactly he’s supposed to do in this situation. 

From the look of Flint, the warden roughed him up a bit, but nothing too serious--no split lip or bruising eye. Of course, Warden Manes is smart and Flint probably has work tomorrow, so who knows what aches Flint really has. Regardless, Michael isn’t expecting Flint to cross the room in three long, purposeful strides, backing Michael toward the wall with sheer determination in his approach.

“Try that again,” Flint demands. 

“I--what?”

He grips Michael’s shoulders and shoves him back hard against the wall. 

“Why are you such a fucking _idiot_ , Guerin?!”

“I don’t know what you--”

“‘ _Um hi_ ?’” Flint repeats, furious beyond reason, spit flying in Michael’s face. “That’s not how you address me when I walk into a room, Guerin. I am your _Lieutenant Warden_ and you will show me some _respect_ , goddammit!” 

He boxes Michael’s left ear, which leaves him feeling unbalanced with a dull ringing. 

“You will address me as either “Lieutenant” or “Sir,” he declares, echoing the demand of his father from just a couple of weeks ago. “Do I make myself clear, Guerin?” 

He boxes Michael’s ear again, and the ringing gets louder. 

“Yeah, Lieutenant, crystal clear,” he answers hastily before this crazy motherfucker bursts his eardrum. 

“Good,” Flint says, giving Michael one last shake before he releases his hold. “I’m going for a ride at first light tomorrow,” he adds on his way back toward the door. “Have Victor saddled and ready.”

“Actually, Tango might be a better—”

“Boy, did I _stutter_?!” Flint demands, rounding on Michael with fury in his eyes.

“It’s just that Victor’s just getting over a bout of colic and—”

Michael sees the smack coming and clips off the rest of the sentence, but Flint lets the slap land anyway, leaving Michael’s eyes watering from the sting of it.

“I didn’t ask for your _opinion_ , Guerin,” Flint says, voice quiet in its threat but nevertheless ominous enough that Michael has to rein in a shudder. “Don’t you _ever_ presume to know better than a human, much less _me_. When I give you an order, you fucking follow it. Do you understand me!?”

“Yeah—yes,” he replies, “Lieutenant,” he adds hastily when anger flares in Flint’s eyes again. “I’ll have Victor ready first thing tomorrow.”

“You’d better,” Flint says, turning to go and slamming the door behind him on the way out.

Michael goes to the sink for a glass of water, trying to come down gently from the spike of adrenaline brought on by Flint’s visit. He thinks briefly of saddling up Tango tomorrow wondering if Flint even knows the horses’ names well enough to know the difference. But even Flint is likely to recognize Tango as the horse the warden most frequently rides and know that’s not the horse he requested. Michael will just have to send him out on Victor, even if the horse ain’t in the mood for it.

 _Wouldn’t it be some karmic justice if Victor throws him and breaks his goddamn neck, the fucking asshole,_ Michael thinks bitterly. 

* * *

For all the love he has of the horses-and the good company they make, honestly, Michael will never, ever stop wondering why in hell someone hasn’t come up with some alternative to mucking out stalls. One of his placement moms had a rig that auto-sifted the cats litter box. Maybe he’ll get inventive someday and figure out a giant version for horse shit….

He’s still in the midst of a nerdy daydream about possible prototypes for it when Alex comes rushing into the barn calling his name. With the alarm of his tone, Michael half expects the warden or Flint to be chasing him down, but when Michael steps out into the main aisle to meet Alex there’s no clear indication of what the problem is.

“What’s the matter?”

“The _Sheriff_ is here,” Alex says. “She--she asked where you were, and I told her I wasn’t sure because--well--I just wanted to check with you before I sent her back here. Did—did you tell them about--”

“No, I didn’t tell anybody anything.”

“Then, are you in trouble for something?”

“Why? You gonna help me make my big escape?” Michael wonders. “Ride off into the sunset on Tango and hope they don’t detonate my microchip and blow my arm off?”

“I want to help; tell me what you need,” Alex says, eyes wild with panic at Michael’s words, but earnest nonetheless. 

“Hell, Alex, I’m joking. Don’t look at me like that,” Michael says. “What d’you think I did? Shot a man in Reno just to watch him die?”

“No, of course I don’t think that. I know you wouldn’t do anything bad just for the hell of it, but--I just--I know you’re a good person in a bad system,” Alex says simply, and Michael’s so touched by the sureness of the statement that he’s speechless for just a moment until Alex prompts, “And if you’re in trouble, I want to help. What would they want with you?”

“It’s probably just my brother,” Michael replies with a sigh.

“Your—wait, what?” Alex repeats, tone changing from concern to surprise.

“My brother, Max. He got placed with the sheriff’s department as a cadet because he’s like the poster child for AFP and AWP success. He’s the mothering type. Tends to keep tabs,” Michael expounds. “He mentioned he might try to drop by, and your dad even said he might allow it. I’m guessing that’s why they’re here.”

“Oh,” Alex says, and the relief in his face is visible.

“Did you _really_ think they were here to drag me off in handcuffs?” Michael asks, still amazed that Alex cares enough to be this worried by the prospect. 

“I don’t know what I thought,” Alex replies. “I just—kind of panicked.”

“No need to panic over Max, I can assure you. Most boring rule-follower this side of the galaxy.”

“Can I meet him?” Alex wonders. 

“Sure, if you want.” 

They heads out around front, and sure enough, as soon as Michael’s in sight Max and Isobel get out of the car and Isobel calls, “Surprise!” 

They look happy, which has Michael smiling in spite of himself. Maybe he’s got about a million problems with the system, but at least it’s working okay for them. Isobel rushes over for a hug.

“I’m kinda gross, Iz,” he warns just before she hugs him anyway. 

“You’re always gross,” she replies. “Got used to it a long time ago.” 

“Ha ha, you’re so funny.”

Sheriff Valenti is watching with a warm smile.

“I spoke to the warden already,” she tells them. “I would’ve given you all a heads up that we were dropping by to pick up Michael,” she says to Alex, “but Max wanted it to be a surprise.” 

“Pick me up?” Michael asks, turning to Max for the answer. 

“Yeah, we’re gonna go out to lunch to celebrate,” Max says, clearly pleased with himself. 

“You get promoted already, nerd?”

The pain that flashes across Max’s face and the way Isobel carefully keeps her face neutral tell Michael instantly that he’s said something wrong. 

_Well, fuck._

“It’s our birthday, you idiot,” Isobel says, voice teasing and flippant to try and battle the uncomfortable silence. “Get a calendar.”

“Isobel, he doesn’t—” Max begins to scold, but Michael cuts across with. “Cowboys don’t need calendars; I barely even bother with a watch. Not all of us tow the boring 9 to 5 line, little sis.”

“I’m _not_ your _little_ sister,” she insists, crossing her arms.

The words ease some of the tension in Max’s shoulders—falling into the old argument of which is the oldest, a fruitless but fun argument they’ve had off and on for years in the absence of knowing what their real birth order is—so Michael counts it as a win. It’s kind of sappy but pretty thoughtful that he put this together. Michael honestly can’t remember the last time he celebrated a birthday with anything other than the cards his siblings sent in the mail or maybe a phone call or video chat if he was somewhere reachable. He quit keeping up with it a long time ago--even if he wasn’t isolated as hell out here on the ranch, he probably would have forgotten.

“Y’all didn’t need to do all this,” Michael says, clapping a hand on Max’s back. “But it’s good to see you.”

“Well, our first birthday all back in the same town, we had to celebrate,” Max says. “And Sheriff said she didn’t mind chaperoning, and the warden said he was giving you the day off anyway so it wouldn’t mess up anything here.”

_Yeah, right; if I didn’t even know it was my GRACE-assigned birthday, he damn sure didn’t know._

“Sounds great,” Michael says aloud, and realizes Alex is still hovering on the edge of the scene. Max follows Micheal’s gaze and smiles.

“Hey, you’re Alex Manes, right?” 

“Yeah, and you’re Max? I see you at Crashdown all the time. Liz says you’re her best customer.”

Max blushes absolutely beet red, and Michael tries--not hard, but a polite effort-- to stifle a giggle. “I just pick up orders for the office,” he says. 

“But we’re actually headed there to eat, since it’s Michael’s favorite,” Isobel says, “unless your tastes have changed, _Cowboy?_ ” she teases. 

“No, I’m good with Crashdown,” Michael replies. “Best milkshakes I’ve ever had.”

_And one of the only places around here that serves antarans so…_

“Want to join us, Alex?” the sheriff asks.

“I--uh--don’t want to intrude on family stuff,” Alex says.

“Oh, we don’t mind,” Max assures. 

“You can keep me company,” Sheriff Valenti says. “I feel like it’s been forever since we’ve talked! You used to be at our house all the time, and then you boys had to go and grow up on me!”

“Oh, I--uh--sure,” Alex agrees, unable to entirely hide the reluctance.

Michael excuses himself to go back to the bunkhouse to wash up a little and change. Max tries to come, asking for a “tour” but Michael lies and says it’s too messy, knowing that where he sees perfectly decent, acceptable accommodations that are far from the worst he’s had, Max—with his lifetime of human-standard living arrangements—will just frown and worry. Michael crams into the back of the cruiser with his siblings, and Alex sits up front with the sheriff, asking politely how Kyle is even though Michael suspects Alex couldn’t care less. 

Crashdown is exactly as Michael remembers it from so many years ago. It brings on a sense of nostalgia he wasn’t expecting, and Mr. Ortecho greets him with a hug and a comment about how grown up he looks without his messy hair. Michael is as good as ever at putting on a happy face for Max and Isobel. It really does turn out to be a fun day to get away. But it makes it harder somehow, having Alex there—every time he downplays the parts of his AWP assignment he doesn’t like; every time he waters down what it’s like to work for the warden; every time he deflects Max’s attempts to pinpoint just how isolated he is by playing the “just a Cowboy who doesn’t want to be ‘plugged in’ all the time ” card; he knows Alex is there; hearing the lies in every story, even if only from the next booth over as he makes small talk with the sheriff. 

Michael doesn’t get to meet the infamous Liz who apparently calls Max her best customer, but he does meet her sister Rosa, who remembers Michael from years ago as “that little hellion who played “What’s New Pussycat?” on the jukebox literally ten times in a row.” It takes Michael a little while to connect that she looks familiar not just from coming to the cafe years ago but also because she was at the press conference the warden had when Michael first returned to Roswell. She doesn’t mention it, so Michael doesn’t either.

The milkshakes are every bit as wonderful as Michael remembers, and the food is amazing— especially compared to the sufficient but overly processed options the Warden provides— but all in all it’s more overwhelming than Michael anticipated, a glaring reminder that while Michael was getting pushed and pulled to other placement families and work details, Max and Isobel were lucky enough to keep on living this life. It’s not their fault, but it still puts a sour taste in his mouth even as he downs his second milkshake. 

* * *

When Sheriff Valenti drops them off in front of the house. Michael is glad to see the warden and Flint are still gone, at least a little while longer of birthday peace to be had. 

“So _Max and Isobel Evans_ are your brother and sister, huh?” Alex wonders as the cruiser pulls out of sight down the driveway. 

“Surprise!” Michael says with a sardonic display of jazz hands. “But you knew that already,” he says, a statement, not a question, and Alex doesn’t deny it. “Looked me up after I told you all that stuff when you brought the books?” he guesses.

Alex nods. “Just the basics, about the crash—I didn’t realize—I mean I’d seen it before, in history class at school actually--and I’d heard Dad mention something about your siblings being in placements around here, but honestly I try to stay out of his way and showing as little interest as possible in his work is one of the best ways to manage it. There’s not much about you, really, just a few articles.”

“Oh, but there’s plenty about Max and Iz,” Michael says. “Wasn’t enough to hold your interest?” failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice entirely. 

Alex shrugs. “I felt like I was snooping--invading your privacy--even just reading those couple of articles, since you don’t offer up details very much. I thought I should wait and let you tell your own story the way you wanted to.”

Alex says it so easily, and Michael grapples with the meaning in the words--that Alex even bothers to be curious about Michael is unlikely enough, much less that he doesn’t feel _entitled_ to whatever information he wants. That he wants _Michael’s_ version of the story--and he apparently has no plans to rush Michael into sharing.

“If you knew who they were, why did you act so surprised when the sheriff showed up?”

“I knew your brother was Max Evans and that he had AWP with law enforcement. I didn’t know he worked _directly_ with the _sheriff._ ” Alex explains. “Besides, like I said, just saw her here and kind of--panicked I guess.”

Michael can understand that well enough--the blind panic that comes with the unexpected appearance of authority--it’s much better than Alex just playing games. 

“Okay, well, now it’s out in the open, let’s get all the comments and questions out of the way,” Michael prompts with a sigh. “Let’s hear ‘em.”

“What do you mean “all the comments and questions”?”

“Wait, a minute, you mean that you’re the third child from _that_ ‘97 crash cluster? The three kids on all the videos?” Michael says, mimicking the voice of surprise and awe and morbid curiosity he’s heard so many times. “Your siblings are such great antaran examples! You must be _so proud,_ ” he goes on, unable to rein himself in once he’s started. “Wait a minute, why isn’t _your_ last name ‘Evans’? Why aren’t _you_ a shining pillar of the antaran placement program? How _exactly_ did you manage to fuck up your life so _royally_ , Michael _Guerin_ ? Do your brother and sister still look out for you though? I bet they do, being the saints that they are. They’re just the cutest little pets we ever did see. Why can’t _all_ anarans be _just like Isobel and Max._ ”

By the time Michael ceases his bitter rambling, Alex is just staring at him, open-mouthed.

“I--” Alex starts, but he seems at a loss for words.

Michael sighs, running a hand down his face. “Sorry, just ignore me. I’m just being a whiny bitch about it. I--”

“No, actually, I’m pretty sure I heard several good points made during that rant,” Alex counters, “and nobody deserves a life so miserable they forget their own birthday.”

Michael grimaces. “Yeah, well, less expectations, less disappointment.”

“You’re not wrong, but that still sucks. Today seemed pretty good though? I mean--you looked happy with them.”

“Yeah, yeah of course I was--it was great to see them; it always is. It’s just--really complicated.”

_I wouldn’t wish my life on anybody. I wouldn’t want to trade places with them. But hell it would have been nice to have a life where I actually got to be their brother. It’s not their fault, but jealousy is still a real bitch._

“Yeah, I’ll bet it’s complicated,” Alex agrees, he reaches to put a hand on Michael’s shoulder, and the weight of it helps to ground Michael a bit. “So, birthday boy, what next?” Alex wonders. 

Michael shrugs. “Just figured back to work; we both know the warden didn’t _really_ give me the day off.”

“We could go for a ride,” Alex says, “if you want a good laugh. But I don’t want to just make more work for you, either, if you’d rather go out on your own.”

“It’s not much work,” Michael replies, hoping he doesn’t sound too eager. “I really do think you’ll get along with Whiskey pretty well.”

“Here’s hoping,” Alex says. “Maybe use your birthday wish to ask that I don’t break my neck?”

“Sure thing,” Michael agrees with a laugh. 

* * *

“For the _love_ of _God_ , Alex!” Michael laments calling back from a few dozen yards ahead. “Speed that horse up, would you?”

“Why? We have someplace to be that I don’t know about?” Alex yells back. 

“Not exactly, but it would be kind of nice to make it back to the stable before my _next_ birthday. Just kick him a little, like I showed you,” Michael prompts.

“Look, I am _very_ grateful that Whiskey has not found a reason to toss me in the dust and trample my guts out, okay? I’m in absolutely no hurry whatsoever to give him any reason to do differently. If he’s good with a nice leisurely walk, then so am I.”

“He’s a _thousand pound horse_ ! You’re not being _mean_ if you kick him; it’s the equivalent of a nudge!”

“If you’re in such a damn hurry, go on ahead, then!” Alex says.

He’s getting flustered and embarrassed now, and maybe Michael shouldn’t be laughing, but it’s just angry kitten levels of adorable. He can’t help himself. 

“Oh, shut up, Guerin!” 

“Sorry, sorry,” Michael says as he guides Sierra back to where Alex is and matches him to Whiskey’s pace. “You’re just so damn frazzled. This is supposed to be _fun_. Not stress you out! That’s the whole point of horseback riding.”

“I’ll get there,” Alex mutters.

“Yeah, by Christmas maybe,” Michael teases. “Which is about the time we’ll get back from this ride.”

“I _just said_ you could ride on ahead.”

“Aw, come on; you know I’m not gonna,” Michael replies. “We can take it slow if you want.” 

Alex pouts just a little for the next several minutes, but eventually he starts perking back up, starting to point out how gorgeous everything looks now that the sun is starting to set. Michael’s more focused on how amazing it is to see Alex engaged and animated and relaxed, away from the oppressive atmosphere of the house and barn where someone might interrupt any moment. Alex gains more confidence as they go, sitting easier in the saddle and nudging Whiskey along when he tries to stop and sample various vegetation. 

After a while longer, Michael catches how Alex keeps looking over at him, excited and easygoing smile giving way to a small, pensive frown. He’s come to know the look well enough in the past few weeks. After a while he gives up ignoring it and asks, 

“Something on your mind?” 

“Nothing that makes good birthday conversation,” Alex replies. 

Michael shrugs. “Can’t be worse than fielding my siblings’ birthday lunch lecture about my damn potential.”

“What? They don’t think dealing with my dad’s bullshit is making good use of your intelligence?” Alex guesses. “Because if that’s their position, I have to agree with him.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, not you too!”

“Guerin, you’re teaching _yourself_ college level physics and calculus out of my text books. That’s not the kind of mind that should be limited to a basic stable job.”

“Yeah, well, take it up with the wonderful folks over at GRACE and their antaran categorization algorithms,” Michael mutters, waving his bangled wrist at Alex, the metal of the ID cuff glinting in the dimming sunbeams. “So what’s on your mind?” Michael persists. “I really wanna know, or it’s just gonna bug me trying to guess in my head.”

“Something you said before—and—I couldn’t tell if you were joking or not.” Alex says, biting at his lip.

“Yeah? What was it?”

“You said something about making an escape and hoping they didn’t detonate your microchip,” Alex recalls. “That it would blow your arm off.”

“Oh,” Michael says with a sigh, “that.”

“Could they really do that?” Alex wonders. “Because they tell us the arm bands and ID chips are just for identification—like military ID tags for soldiers, but—well, they also tell us they don’t split up families and that there’s a careful system to manage placements and—a lot of other bullshit I’m realizing more and more isn’t true.”

“Didn’t anybody ever tell you that if you dig too deep looking for the truth, you might just unearth a few skeletons?”

 _Or more like a mass grave, if we’re talking about GRACE,_ Michael broods.

“I’m supposed to live up to the family name,” Alex reminds bitterly, “once I’m eighteen, my dad’s already got my whole goddamn career mapped out.”

“You don’t have to do that--you could do something else--get away from here, from _him._ You should go be happy someplace, Alex.”

“Maybe,” he agrees. “But if I end up at GRACE somewhere, don’t you want somebody who knows an antaran’s perspective and not just whatever the infamous Warden Manes and GRACE put in my head?” He hesitates. “Unless you just don’t _want_ to talk about it?”

“No, it’s not that--it’s just--usually a lot easier to fly under people’s radar,” Michael admits. “Nobody cares this much.”

Alex shrugs. “Some people are just nice, Guerin,” he says, and Michael smiles at the memory of the day Alex gifted him his guitar.

 _Not in my experience. Not until you,_ he thinks for maybe the millionth time. 

Sometimes Michael wishes he could figure out what Alex really wants from him, so that he could give it to him--Alex has more than earned it. But he’s even more afraid of figuring out that Alex wants something Michael can’t give--not that he’s got anything to give really, or that there’s anything he’d deny Alex at this point. 

“I don’t know anything about military ID tags,” Michael says finally, pulling the conversation back to Alex’s question, “but yeah, it’s all supposed to be harmless.”

“Supposed to be,”Alex repeats, “so it might _not_ be.”

“You hear things,” Michael replies, “and it’s hard to tell what’s paranoia and what’s got a grain or two of truth to it. They say they started with the ID bracelets because with the first crashes right after the second world war ended people were a little--I dunno, squeamish I guess about tattoos. Then technology got better, and antarans started going outside the camps more and more often--so the microchips came along. The bracelets ID us for what we are at a quick glance--and any big issues, if they think you’re a safety risk--but the microchips correlate to our whole lives--or at least the pieces of them that GRACE splices together to make a quick-reference guide on how to handle you.”

“Can you feel the microchips?” Alex wonders, eyes glued to Michael’s left wrist as if he could see under the skin if he stares hard enough. “Do they hurt?”

“Nah,” Michael says, “but personally I think that’s more by design than out of any kindness.”

“Huh?”

“You’re unconscious when you get chipped,” Michael says. “And they say it’s embedded deep to prevent the irritant of being able to feel it near the surface. But they sure don’t mind the irritant of bracelets we can’t take off. I just don’t think it's a coincidence they plant it deep into the tissue in an anatomical location that makes for the very real possibility of bleeding to death if you tried to get it out on your own.”

Alex frowns, clearly trying to figure out what to say. Michael doesn’t really know what to say either, so he’s no help; the silence builds, broken only by the sound of the horses’ hooves against the dry earth, until Alex finally speaks. 

“You’re more than whatever is coded in that chip,” he declares firmly. “You know that, don’t you?” 

Michael huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “Sure.”

“I mean it, Guerin. You--”

“Current Earth Name: Guerin; Crash year: 1997; Human approximation age: 17; 1 of 3 in cluster; parents: n/a orphaned at time of crash; behavioral category: 6; AFP Roswell, New Mexico, terminated due to behavioral issues; AFP Dallas, Texas terminated due to behavioral issues; AFP, Boulder, Colorado terminated due to behavioral issues; AFP Provo, terminated due to behavioral issues; AWP Alexandria, terminated due to insubordination; AWP Charleson, terminated due to subpar work performance; AWP Orlando, terminated due to insubordination; AWP Atlanta, terminated due to workplace injury; East Coast GRACE Camp in-house restrictive work detail,” Michael fires off, bitterness dripping from every word, but he can’t quite stop himself. “That sums it up pretty well, don’t you think?” he asks. “What else could anybody else _possibly_ need to know about me?”

“There’s so much more than--”

“But, oh, I forgot to add my new gig,” he rants on. “I mean, it doesn’t seem like the kind of resume that gets you something _prestigious_ like a job at the warden’s ranch, does it? I must have some friends in _really_ high places to pull off something that _lucky._ I bet it was my _saintly_ siblings who pulled strings to get me such a _wonderful, fantastic career-building opportunity._ ” Michael has the brief thought that he should stop, but he can’t quite rein himself in. “Except you and I both know that the warden doesn’t need _help_ with anything; he just wants somebody to keep in line. And one glance at my microchip biography spells out why I’m the _perfect_ candidate to be under Jesse Manes’ thumb. I hear he likes a challenge.”

The silence that descends is worse than before--partly because Alex looks like he wants to puke, and Michael wishes he could take back the words. Instead, he just struggles to figure out how to phrase an apology that doesn’t sound hollow.

“Alex, I--”

“Don’t,” Alex interrupts. “Because every fucking word you just said was totally valid, and--and you--I _meant_ what I said before. You’re more than that list of facts and placements, and you’ve got more potential than whatever ignorant algorithm they use to measure where you should be.”

“Even if it’s true, you still don’t deserve to be yelled and ranted to.”

“And _you_ don’t deserve to be stuck bottling it up,” Alex counters. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

“Yeah, I know,” Michael says, “but I’d rather just-- _be._ Ya know? I mean that is a hell of a sunset, and we’re not appreciating it because I’m going off on a tirade about things neither one of us can change. Let’s just ride?”

“Sure, if that’s what you want. You must think it’s your birthday or something,” Alex teases, and Michael grins, grateful for the transition toward levity. 

Michael can see Alex working up his courage for a couple of seconds before he _finally_ gives Whiskey a good enough kick to get him cantering, and he smiles back at Michael over his shoulder, looking only slightly terrified as he calls, “Come on, slow poke!” 

* * *

_Maybe some days Michael hates this job--because he’s stuck here, watching Jesse Manes terrorize Alex and shoveling a veritable fuck ton of horse shit out of stalls--but some days, his job doesn’t suck at all. Days when he gets to take a horse out to ride the fences, make sure everything’s in working order, take him time and ride down by the creek. Even stop to just be for a minute._

_One moment he’s letting the horse enjoy the stream and graze a while, leaned comfortably against a tree, and the next Alex is calling his name, gently laying hand on his shoulder and jostling him lightly._

_“Fall asleep, Guerin?” Alex wonders as Michael gazes up bleary-eyes._

_“Guess so.”_

_“Mind if I?” Alex wonders, gesturing to the patch of grass beside Michael._

_“Be my guest,” Michael replies._

_He drops down, reaching his hand between them to lace his fingers through Michael’s. The next moment he leans over, bringing his lips to Michael’s, pulling away after the barest touch, eyes wide and worried._

_“Is this okay?” Alex asks._

_“Yeah,” Michael answers breathlessly. “Yeah, more than okay.”_

_Alex cradles one hand behind Michael’s head, moving in for a deeper kiss this time, mouth soft and wet against Michael’s lips, and Michael aches with how badly he’s wanted this, feeling the thrill of excitement in every cell of his body, hungry for more--as much as Alex will give him. Alex’s hands roam over Michael’s back, across his shoulders, sending chills down Michael’s spine. He never wants this to stop--could spend the rest of his life in Alex’s arms if the universe would throw him some luck for once in his life._

_But thunder rumbles low in the distance, and Alex pulls away, breathless._

_“Storm’s coming; we better get back,” he says._

_“Scared of a little rain?” Micheal teases._

“Guerin?” Michael sits bolt upright at the sound of his name, heart racing in fear and nearly tumbles out of the hammock. “Guerin, wake up. Storm’s coming in; you should sleep in the bunkhouse tonight,” Alex says, as he keeps his grip on Michael’s shoulders to steady him and keep him from falling. 

“Right--yeah--storm,” Michael mutters, trying to shake off the grogginess of sleep and get to his feet. 

Alex continues to steady him, even once he’s out of the hammock and on solid ground. It does absolutely nothing to help Michael forget the dream--thank God Alex hadn’t waited another two minutes to wake him, or this would’ve been a _lot_ more awkward. 

“What’re you doing out here?” Michael wonders as Alex joins him in the walk to the bunkhouse.

“Thought I’d give you one last birthday surprise,” Alex says, and for just a minute, Michael wonders whether he’s still dreaming—whether Alex might kiss him.. “Just a little something,” Alex adds, holding up a large brown paper bag. 

“You didn’t need to do that,” Michael tells him. 

Alex shrugs. “Maybe I wanted to. Besides, it’s really nothing.”

They get to the bunkhouse just as it starts raining, pinging loudly on the metal roof. Lightning flashes in the distance, and the thunder follows not long after. 

“You should sit at the table,” Alex tells him. “Close your eyes.”

Michael raises a skeptical eyebrow as he takes a seat. “I thought this was ‘just a little something?’” he says.

“It is,” Alex confirms, “but it’s still a _surprise_ something.”

 _I hope it’s a kiss,_ Michael thinks again, before the rational side of his brain can chime in and remind him how incredibly idiotic he is to even entertain the idea. He closes his eyes, as requested, and the rattling of the bag and then the sound of plastic give him no clues as to what he can expect when Alex is done. 

“Okay, open,” Alex instructs finally.

Set in front of Michael is a small paper plate bearing a hostess snowball with a single lit birthday candle in it. Beside it there’s a small brown paper bag, and then the big one Alex was carrying it all in sits too, now with the top neatly folded down. No matter what’s in the bags, it’s the most earnest display of care Michael’s received in longer than he’d care to admit--and he’s honestly at a loss for words. 

“I heard your arguing with Max today,” Alex says, filling the silence nervously. “When he ordered the coconut milkshake, and you told him if he liked those, then he needed to give snowballs another try and--well, I wasn’t trying to listen in or anything, but you guys were pretty vocal in your opinions on the matter,” Alex says with a small laugh, “and since there’s no way in hell I could manage to _make_ you a birthday cake, I thought this could be a funny substitute?”

“Alex, it’s--it’s perfect, thank you.”

“And the gifts are just--I dunno. You should have stuff to open on your birthday, ya know? Like Christmas.”

Michael doesn’t bother to recount how many birthdays and Christmases have passed just fine regardless of whether he had anything to open. Instead he just smiles, reaching for the smaller bag first. 

“Acetone,” he says when he opens it, “and a pocket shot of whiskey.” He grins at Alex. “So it’s officially a party?” 

Alex rolls his eyes. “It’s your birthday, you tell me.”

“What’s in here?” Michael asks, reaching for the larger bag.

“Open it and see; that’s kind of the point, Guerin.” As Michael pulls two text books--statistics and biology—out of the bag, Alex goes on, “They’re not in great shape, ‘cause we used them last year and got to keep them because they got new books this year. I can get you some better ones, but--ya know--short notice and all, so--”

“These are fantastic!” Michael says, flipping through the worn pages, smiling at the notes left by all the students who’ve left both earnest notes and inappropriate sketches. “Really, Alex, these are--this is--amazing.”

“It’s really not,” Alex dismisses. “Just, like I said. A little something. If I’d’ve known beforehand I would have--”

“I’m serious,” Michael persists. “It’s _not_ little; and it _is_ amazing.”

Against his better judgement, Michael reaches for the shot of whiskey, offering it to Alex. “You’re not gonna leave a man drink alone on his birthday, are you?” he asks. “You should wait until the rain slacks off to make a break back to the house anyway,” he adds, when Alex hesitates. 

“You sure?” 

“Of course I’m sure,” Michael replies. “But I’m _not_ sharing the snowball,” he adds with a grin

They end up jammed together on the tiny, uncomfortable sofa, watching October Sky on Alex’s phone because Michael is sauced enough on acetone to admit it’s his favorite when Alex asks. Alex isn’t nearly as buzzed from his one shot as Michael is from most of a bottle, but he doesn’t seem to mind too much that Michael has descended into the happy haze of tipsiness. The warm, safety of Alex at his side, combined with the drum of the rain on the roof and the pleasant level of intoxication have Michael drifting off to sleep repeatedly, until Alex says, “Guerin, you should get in your bed; it’ll be more comfortable.”

“Not yet,” he murmurs, “I’m not sleepy.”

“Sure you’re not,” Alex agrees with a huff of laughter. 

“This might be my best birthday,” Michael tells him. “Don’ want it to be done yet.”

“Okay,” Alex says, without further argument, ceasing his attempts to nudge Michael to his feet. “It doesn’t have to be done yet.”

* * *

Michael doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes to the shrill sound of the alarm clock beside his bed. He realizes he’s on his bunk, and for one terrible moment he thinks he dreamed Alex’s visit. But the used candle is on the table, and the paper plate and snowball wrapper are in the trash. When he opens the top drawer of his dresser, he sees Alex tucked away the books and what was left of the acetone. Michael takes a quick swig to take the edge off of his slight hangover, grinning as he replays the night, hoping he didn’t make too much of a fool of himself. 

But he’s pretty sure that even if he _did_ , Alex won’t hold it against him. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE:  
> We are not using the overarching archive warnings, but some do apply. Please note the updated tags and consider this a general warning for severe physical abuse, xenophobia, homophobia, and less-than-ethical medical treatment in this chapter. If you would like more specific details before reading, please check the end notes!

Max drops by the ranch unexpectedly, and he’s in a rush judging by the way he hurries into the barn, calling Michael’s name. Maybe it’s because Max looks more than a little foreboding in his official uniform, silver badge shining on his chest and “Cadet Evans” emblazoned on his name tag, but Michael’s breath catches in panic, even though Max doesn’t look all that worried. Besides, worrisome things are generally accompanied by at least a small twinge in the cluster’s telepathic link, and there hasn’t been a sign that anything is amiss. 

“What’s wrong? Is it Isobel?” Michael asks.

“No, no nothing like that,” Max assures. “Just a random drop-in. I found this about a week ago, but this is the first call I’ve come on that was in the neighborhood. The sheriff didn’t mind swinging by, really quick, but I’d better hurry back out.”

He extends a well-worn plastic lunch box emblazoned with Lion King characters that brings a rush of memories back like a tidal wave. 

“I was helping Mom and Dad clean out the attic, and I’d forgotten it was up there,” Max goes on. “Remember we found those loose boards in the wall and hid them away, and--well, anyway, I just thought you might like to have it.”

Even all these years later, Michael knows what’s inside without needing to open it: a set of cards for old maid, another set of regular cards, a bright red yo-yo with scuff marks from trying to learn how to do the “walk the dog” trick, a blue flashlight with yellow stars that shines a beam in the shape of a crescent moon, a small “spaceship” model made out of legos piloted by Lego-Michael, Lego-Max, and Lego-Isobel, and a well-worn picture of a blonde lady torn out of a magazine.

“Michael?” Max says softly, and only then does Michael realize tears are gathering in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he answers quickly, clearing his throat as he takes the box from Max. 

“I shouldn't have brought it,” Max says, forlorn. “I just rubbed salt in the wound, didn’t I? Shit, Michael. I didn’t mean to--”

“Oh, fuck off,” Michael says. “You just caught me off-guard. Can’t a guy be a little sentimental?” 

“Yeah, of course. Sorry I sprung it on you. I was thinking it’d be a surprise but..”

“You never seem to remember I don’t  _ like _ surprises,” Michael says with an exaggerated eye roll. “You’re right about one thing though; I do want to have it.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah, of course. It didn’t all work out in the end, but we had some good times back then, too,” he says, “Good to have something to remember it by.” He fiddles with the latch and wonders, “Did you go through it?”

“Hell no,” Max says solemnly, “those were the rules, remember?” he adds with a smile.

Michael flashes back to countless days of being young and angry and ready to pummel Max--shouting about who touched whose side of the room they shared, whose toys were whose, whose clothes--arguments that seemed so important before Michael knew what the real world was like. Still, they’d built a fragile brotherly peace treaty on the agreement that the lunch box “safes” were sacred, private storage not to be trespassed on.

“Pinky promises are not to be taken lightly, Michael,” Max says, and his fond smile widens, though his eyes still seem a little sad. “Even if it has been a decade.”

Michael grins. “Damn straight.”

The handheld radio on Max’s belt broadcasts a tone, followed by words and response codes Michael only half understands. The torn look on his brother’s face is one he understands all too well though--Max trying to decide whether he can respond to the call or whether he needs to take care of Michael.

“Better get back to work, Cadet,” Michael tells him. “Thanks for dropping this by though. I appreciate it.”

_ Even if it really was about a pound of salt in a very open wound… _

“Sure you’re okay?”

“Of course,” Michael says. “Call and check up on me tonight if you don’t believe me,” he offers, hoping Max  _ won’t  _ but knowing he probably  _ will _ \--or at a minimum he’ll tell Isobel to call. 

“Yeah, we’ll talk tonight,” Max says. “I’ll see you soon, okay? Sheriff’s gonna ask the warden when we can work out another lunch day.”

“Sounds great,” he says as Max disappears back down the aisle and out of the barn.

_ Just fucking great.  _

He takes the box back to the tack room with him, setting it on the table, fingers hovering over the latch. Max meant it as a nice gesture--meant to remind Michael of better times. But this is just another reminder of just how starkly different their lives really are. Michael doesn’t need that kind of reminder--of how things _could_ have been if everything hadn’t gone sideways so fast all those years ago. Something to sit on the counter and make him play the old familiar game of _what if, what if, what if._ Wondering if there was something he could have done to stop all the moments that led to losing his first earth family and began the never-ending cycle of misery in the GRACE system. No, he doesn’t want to keep this damn lunchbox. He wants it _gone,_ the glaring reminder of what _could_ have been and _wasn’t..._ all because…

In the end he doesn’t open the box, just takes it to the trash can and chucks it in on top of all the bags, slamming the lid back down as he retreats back to the barn to finish the day. After a night’s sleep, he finds himself wandering toward the bin the next afternoon, wondering if maybe he acted too quickly--reacting to the hurt and frustrating that overwhelmed him, but, really, in the end he doesn’t have much in the way of keepsakes that didn’t get lost or ruined as he shuffled place to place. It isn’t until he opens the lid to the bin and finds it empty that he remembers it was trash day yesterday.

_ Probably for the best,  _ he tells himself, trying to ignore the pit that the loss puts in his stomach.  _ I should just get back to work. _

* * *

In the weeks after Michael’s birthday, Alex grows more and more confident with riding. He sticks to Whiskey, and Michael wonders how long before the warden intends to swap her out. It would be nice to have a little more time with her, and Michael hopes that losing Whiskey doesn’t detrail Alex’s progress. He’s gotten up the courage to not only keep the horse on the trail and away from the vegetation with a firm hand, but Alex even instigates races, looking back to flash bright, mischievous smiles that make Michael’s heart skip a beat--not that he pays that any attention. He can’t let his idiotic, antaran teenage hormones fuck up what is easily one of the best friendships he’s ever had. Even  _ if  _ watching Alex cantering across the picturesque New Mexico desert, bathed in sunlight, laughing with joy and eyes alight with freedom and fun makes Michael…

_ Okay, okay, enough. Get your head in the game,  _ Michael scolds himself, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to think about literally anything else as he stares down at his reigns. The sobering thought of how this version of Alex--wild, happy, free--will melt away the instant they ride back into the stables to see his father's truck in the driveway is sobering enough to do the trick. 

After Alex beats Michael in a short race--well, Michael  _ lets  _ Alex beat him in a short race, it’s not Alex’s fault that his favorite horse is also the slowest in the stable, and it’d be no fun if Michael won  _ every  _ time--they set a leisurely pace back toward the barn. Out of the corner of his eye, and maybe because he’s paying more attention to Alex’s mouth than he should be, Michael notices him open his mouth as if to speak and then close it again, once, twice, then a third time before Michael finally sighs and says, “Whatever it is, you can ask. Just spit it out.”

“It’s none of my business,” Alex tells him, “and I know that. So you can totally just tell me I’m an asshole for even bringing it up.”

“Well, I can’t call you an asshole until you tell me what you want,” Michael points out. 

The anticipation of Alex’s questions is always worse than the topics he wants to talk about--at least so far. Even with Michael’s urging to share, he still bites nervously at his lip, still clearly considering letting the conversation go. 

“It’s--well--”

“Come  _ on _ , you’re killing me, Smalls!” Michael laments, quoting the line from the Sandlot--watched over the course of several of Alex’s visits, crammed together on the small sofa--that has become their inside joke now. 

“Who’s Guerin Evans?” Alex blurts finally. “I mean--I guess--it’s you, right? But I thought Guerin was your last name. Except, well, I googled it, and they called you Guerin in the early articles, but your file is Michael Guerin, and--”

“You saw that old lunchbox,” Michael realizes, tone coming out much more angry and accusatory than he intended. 

“I know you threw it out,” Alex says, “and--and I had no right to--it just--it caught my attention in the bin when I was taking out the trash and--well--I don’t know, it just--didn’t look like the kind of thing you’d throw away on purpose, so I took it out, just in case, but then I saw the writing on the side--where someone had written Guerin Evans, and you--I guess it was you anyway--scratched at the plastic to take the name Guerin off and wrote to “Michael” instead…and I realized maybe you  _ did  _ mean to throw it out, but--well, then I didn’t really know how to bring it up.”

Michael tries to keep his face neutral because he knows Alex is watching for the reaction--just like Max, trying to figure out how much damage has been done by dredging up Michael’s memories. He must not manage to look all that unbothered, since Alex’s brow furrows and he almost immediately continues, “We really don’t have to talk about it--just--just tell me whether to chuck it out or keep it--or, I can just give it back to you and you can do whatever and--”

“Yeah, it’s mine. Max found it and gave it back to me the other day,” Michael starts, as much to make Alex quit talking as anything else. “He was on his way someplace and had the sheriff swing by.” Alex waits patiently, and Michael continues, “You’re right; I scratched out my GRACE name and wrote Michael on there instead.  _ God  _ it pissed Mrs. Evans off  _ so  _ bad,” he recalls. “That I “ruined” the lunchbox they so  _ generously  _ gave me, but more I think because I was so determined about my name--wouldn’t let it go.”

Michael subtly tries to nudge Tango to a little faster pace, but Alex has Whiskey matching speed, keeping the distance between them minimal. Michael doesn’t look over, though he can feel Alex’s eyes on him, wondering if maybe Alex will let it go. He knows Alex would stop if Michael asked him to--even if Michael just sent a clearer message by urging Tango into a canter and leaving no room for conversation for the rest of the short distance back to the barn. But Michael can never quite manage to shut Alex out like that--and he’s not sure he really  _ wants  _ to.

“Was Michael your name from before the crash?”

“I don’t know,” Michael says, “I guess maybe--maybe I just heard it someplace. Or maybe it really was my name, or the closest English option? I just remember they were all talking about us, trying to teach us to speak and writing names on name tags, and I just knew it wasn’t my name. That my name was Michael.” He huffs a laugh at the memory, “that was the first thing I said to her--Mrs. Evans. She said ‘we’re going to be your family now. Welcome to your new home, Max, Isobel, Guerin. We’re so happy to have you here,’ and--I didn’t realize it at the time, but she was holding her arms out for a hug, I think--and I just said ‘Actually, my name is Michael’ and walked past her into the house. Max and Isobel figured it out though--they hugged her.”

_ They always figured out how to get along with the humans faster than me...still do, I guess... _

“GRACE wouldn’t let you change it?” Alex says. “Why?”

“How could a seven year old  _ antaran  _ possibly know better than the magnificent GRACE organization?” Michael asks.

“Because it was your  _ name _ !” Alex retorts, clearly incensed. 

Michael shrugs. “Maybe they would have changed it, but the Evanses liked Guerin better, I think? And then after, it was as much to teach a lesson as anything. Even when they finally let me have ‘Michael’ once my last placement family fell through, they made me keep the GRACE name”

“Because they knew your GRACE name is what all your work placements would call you. It wouldn’t matter what your first name was listed as,” Alex realizes, “that’s  _ ridiculous.  _ I mean, what does it matter what your  _ name  _ is? There’s no reason to--”

“Sure there is,” Michael interjects. “It’s a control thing. Reason and logic always take a backseat to control. You should know that.”

_ Look at your father... _

“I can know it’s true  _ and  _ still think it’s bullshit,” Alex points out. 

They ride in silence a few moments longer, and Michael debates another few minutes before admitting, “I was pissed at Max for bringing it by--for not thinking that I might not want  _ another  _ reminder of--everything. So I just threw it out.”

“Oh.”

“But then I went back later, to get it out of the trash,” Michael tells him, “except the bin was empty, and I realized it was trash day and thought it was gone.”

“So you  _ do _ want it?”

“Yeah. Hell if I know _why_ I want the damn thing, but I do.”

“I know why,” Alex says. “Or I have a good guess anyway.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Because it’s complicated--when the good memories get mixed up with the bad ones. And you can’t keep the good memories unless you keep the bad ones, too. Not everything about your time with the Evans’ was bad, was it?”

“No, not all of it—not much of it, honestly, it just all went to hell because—-because it did.”

_ Because we had to protect Isobel. And she needed Max more than she needed me… _

“You know if you ever wanted to talk about—”

“I don’t,” Michael says with unwarranted force. “I mean—just—thanks and all, but I can’t.”

“I understand.”

The silence between them grows, until Michael finally requests, “Can we talk about like, literally anything else?”

“Sure, yeah, of course,” Alex says, apparently trying to land on a topic. “Oh, they announced the next play at school yesterday, the big musical they do every year.”

“What’s it called?” 

“Fiddler on the Roof.”

“Yeah, not one that held Isobel or Max’s attention long enough to get onto my radar at any point,” Michael says, “what’s it about?”

“Honestly, I haven’t read it or seen it or anything. I just know it’s set about a hundred years ago, and it’s something about balancing tradition and heritage and progress? The theatre teacher called it a “poignant social commentary” when he was announcing auditions.”

“You gonna try out?” 

“I think I might try for stage manager, actually--or something like that on the crew. I think it’d be fun.”

“Add on your application or whatever you’ve got a bored antaran at your beck and call to help build stuff,” Michael says, “maybe it’ll give you an extra boost.”

“It’s not your job to help build stuff for my school play!”

“Maybe I  _ want  _ to build stuff,” Michael replies. “I mean--if you end up needing help,” he adds, realizing that he’s never had any actual experience with it. “I don’t know much about theatre, but I know plenty about building stuff.”

“That would be pretty great actually,” Alex says. “If you’re serious.”

“Yeah, of course, and the warden won’t mind I don’t think--it’s more work, not less, in the end. Right? But--uh-- I’ll let you do the asking, let him think it’s an order and not something I volunteered for.”

“Do you ever get tired of playing fucked up games like that with him?” Alex wonders with a sigh. “‘Cause it fucking  _ exhausts  _ me.”

“ _ Life _ is a fucked up game, Alex,” Michael answers simply. “At least for the moment, I know the general rules I’m working with. That’s more than a lot of placements.”

“Then the game needs new rules,” Alex declares. 

“Who’s gonna change it?” Michael scoffs. “You?”

“Maybe,” Alex says, and the way his eyes widen just a bit give away his own surprise at the answer. “I mean--I dunno, but somebody needs to.”

“If there was a Manes man to do it, it’d be you,” Michael says, not wanting to shoot down Alex’s momentary daydream. “But the problem is too big for one man, Alex. Don’t waste your life on it. Just get as far away as you can and be happy somewhere.”

“It’s not that simple,” Alex says. “I can’t just  _ leave _ .”

“Why not?”

“Because--because--well, because it's complicated,” Alex finishes lamely. “I don’t know, Guerin. I just--”

He cuts off his sentence as they come within sight of the barn. Flint is just getting out of his truck, and from the way he slams the truck’s door and storms into the house, he’s in a foul mood. Michael can see him glowering in their direction through the kitchen window, and he puts a little more distance between his horse and Alex’s. 

“I don’t have to point out that you should probably stay out of his way tonight, do I?” Alex says. 

“I think we both know Flint better than that,” Michael replies with a sigh. “I’ll finish up and call it an early night.”

“Good plan.”

* * *

Michael hurries to get the horses taken care of so that he can retreat to the bunkhouse--not that it does him any good. A few hours after he first arrived home angry, Flint enters the bunkhouse with the swagger Michael would love to keep in check with a fair fight--of course, that’s never going to happen, so instead he just tries to steel himself for whatever outburst is coming. Flint has made a regular pastime of bullying Michael to nurse his own wounded pride when things aren’t going his way. 

Michael stands from his place at the table, holding back a sigh as he asks wearily, “Can I help you within something, Lieutenant?”

“I think it’s time we have a little talk,” Flint replies, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Somehow, the calm, slow way he speaks and moves to lean against the kitchenette counter is more unsettling than all the times he’s burst in to immediately start yelling or dealing out punches. He fixes Michael with a piercing, steady gaze, and it’s clear to see there’s absolute fury underlying Flint’s mood tonight. Michael barely suppresses a shudder, trying to hold Flint’s gaze so he doesn’t seem guilty by averting his eyes—but also trying not to seem as though he’s challenging him. Michael hasn’t got a clue what Flint means, so he opts for silence, hoping he’ll get some clue as Flint goes on.

“Can you guess what I want to talk about, Guerin?” Flint wonders.

“Something with--the horses?” he says, knowing it’s probably wrong but unsure what other guesses to make. 

“Strike one,” Flint replies with a sigh. “Try again.”

“I don’t--”

“ _ Try again _ .”

“There’s that fence section in the corral that needs mending?”

“Strike  _ two _ ,” Flint says angrily, taking several steps closer to Michael, leaning into Michael’s space and Michael leans back into the table, wishing he had space to actually step away. Michael catches a whiff of whiskey on Flint’s breath, though he doesn’t show the slightest sign of inebriation. 

“Come on, Guerin,” Flints demands. “Think really,  _ really  _ hard. You  _ know _ I don’t give a damn about the the damn horses  _ or _ the fucking fence, or any of these bullshit, busy-work, trained-monkey-could-replace you, little jobs Dad has you working on. So, tell me, what would I care enough about to come waste my time talking to  _ you _ ?”

“The--the warden?” Michael guesses, still completely at a loss. 

Flint swings to box Michael’s ear, and Michael blocks the move easily enough with his right hand, expecting it now, but Flint uses the move to his advantage. He grabs Michael’s wrist, twisting it behind him with a jerk, and slamming Michael down against the table with an elbow in his back. Pain shoots up Michael’s arm, deep and sharp with a sickening pop he just barely hears over the sound of his own yelp.

“Strike three,” Flint says, voice low and threatening, leaning his weight into Michael as he twists his arm just a bit farther back, until Michael’s unintentional whimper becomes a pathetic cry. 

“Please, I don’t know!”

“We’re going to have a little chat about Alex,” Flint says, growling the words in Michael’s ear so close his hot breath makes Michael’s skin crawl. 

As the words sink in, panic washes over Michael in a whole new wave of fear.

_ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.  _

_ Don’t react. Don’t give anything away. You don’t know what he knows. Maybe he’s just guessing. Maybe he’s just grasping at straws.  _

“About Alex?” Michael repeats, feigning ignorance. “Why?”

Flint grabs Michael’s hair with his free hand and yanks his head back before slamming it forward into the counter. Michael yelps again, sharp pain in his nose receding to an ache over his whole face. He sputters as his nose starts to bleed. 

“I’ve seen the way you look at my brother, you  _ disgusting _ piece of space filth,” Flint fumes. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t  _ guess  _ the perverted--”

“I didn’t--I don’t--I swear! I—”

“Don’t you _dare_ try to lie to me, Guerin! You know _exactly_ what you’ve been thinking--”

“It’s just that--that he doesn’t seem to hate me as much as you and--”

“Don’t spin me some shit about him being nicer to you than the rest of us. Alex is nice to everybody. He’s weak like that. Just because he’s too chicken shit to go out riding by himself--or help us keep you in line, it doesn’t  _ mean  _ a goddamn thing. He doesn’t  _ care  _ about you. He’s a Manes man, and he knows  _ exactly  _ what a useless piece of shit you and every divisive invader like you really are. You aren’t  _ capable  _ of being good; it’s not in your nature, and he knows it as well as the rest of us. You hear me?! Any  _ ideas-- _ any fucking  _ fantasties  _ you have about him are--”

“I don’t! I'm not thinking anything like that about Alex! I  _ swear _ !” Michael continues to babble, gagging as he swallows too much of the blood pouring down his face. 

“You  _ are _ !” Flint insists. “You’ve got  _ perverted  _ ideas about my little brother-- _ lusting  _ after him with your  _ revolting, alien _ brain, and  _ hell  _ if I am going to just  _ stand by _ and let you defile him.”

“But, I’m not--” 

Flint jerks Michael back around, quick and hard, slinging him away from the counter so that he tumbles to the middle of the floor. Michael cries in pain again when he tries to use his right arm to catch himself, pain jarring up through. He can’t even put enough weight on it to try to scramble away, and Flint lands two solid kicks to Michael’s left side that leave him coughing and a third that flips him from the fetal position to flat on his back. Flint reaches down to haul Michael up by the collar of his shirt. The fabric begins to tear, but Flint’s grip doesn’t slacken. He holds the collar tight, and just high enough that Michael’s on his tiptoes, gasping against the hold at his throat and the pain from the kicks. His injured right arm hangs, useless, but Michael uses his left to pull at Flint’s hand, trying to loosen the hold even a little, but Flint just tightens his grip. 

“You’re going to stay the  _ hell  _ away from Alex, understand?” he says, and Michael nods, unable to draw in enough breath to answer aloud, even if he thought he could manage to lie convincingly right now. 

“I’ll be  _ damned  _ if I’m going to let you make a joke out of  _ this  _ family, you little asshole. We keep antarans  _ in line  _ in this house, you understand?”

He loosens his grip on Michael’s throat to a hold with just one hand, freeing up his left to box Michael’s ear hard.  _ Smack. Smack.  _ Michael flails in a pathetic attempt to block the third swing, but it lands solidly, and he can’t suppress a whimper as the ringing in his ear becomes a roar. Flint lets go of his hold on Michael so suddenly that he couldn't have kept himself from falling even if he tried. This time he manages to keep his weight off of this injured arm, just curling into as small a target as he can manage, trying to shield his sore abdomen, but leaving his back an easy target, and Flint kicks hard. 

And kicks again.

And again.

And again.

_ Did he forget he’s got his boots on? Or does he just not care?  _ Michael wonders vaguely, as he feels the wall of the bunkhouse at his back, giving Flint’s kicks all the more power as the barrage continues, pelting Michael with kicks over what feels like every inch of his body. At some point, Michael thinks he hears a cracking sound, but he can’t be sure. It all hurts so badly that it takes every inch of concentration just to breathe without screaming. When Flint finally,  _ finally _ stops, Michael barely registers the sound of Flint spitting on him before giving one last, hard nudge with his boot that rips one more cry of pain from Michael’s aching lungs. 

“Suck it up,” Flint orders. “You’d better not goddamn die on me, you little fairy,” he mutters, leaving Michael behind as he strides purposefully out of the bunkhouse, slamming the door behind him.

Michael feels the telekinetic nudge of Isobel in his mind, and then the phone rings. He tries to rise, but he can barely lift his head, much less stand. He grits his teeth, determined, and far too frightened of using his powers, and makes his way slowly across the floor to the wall where the phone hangs. By the time he gets there, the phone has been ringing for longer than he could keep track. He closes his eyes, using just the slightest bit of power to nudge the phone off of the receiver and letting gravity do the rest to bring it to him. 

“Hello?” he manages, voice thick with his nose stopped up.

“Michael? Are you okay?” Isobel asks, panic evident. 

She can’t come here; Michael won’t pull her into this. She can’t come. She can’t know. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he lies. 

“You’re  _ hurt _ . I can feel it. I’m sure Max can, too.”

“Just--got thrown from a new pony we’re breaking in,” he lies, “hurts like a son of a bitch, but it’s okay.”

“Are you sure? Because it doesn’t seem like something that’s “okay,” Michael. It’s  _ agonizing.  _ ”

“I’m positive. Don’t worry. It must just feel stronger since I’m closer. I’ll be good as new with an ice pack and a good night’s sleep.”

“I’m calling back in the morning to check,” she tells him. “Are you sure you don’t need to go to the clinic and get checked out or something?”

“I’m telling you; I’m  _ fine _ .”

“If you’re not better tomorrow--”

“Goodnight, Isobel.”

“You’re such an asshole. I’m just trying to make sure you’re okay.”

“Love you, too,” he says, hanging up the phone. He’d roll his eyes if his entire head wasn’t throbbing with every heartbeat. 

After another few minutes to get himself together, he uses his unhurt arm to help brace himself against the wall and gets shakily to his feet, gasping. He works up the resolve to grit his teeth and stumble the four steps it takes to reach his bed, easing as gingerly down as he can manage, but it doesn’t stop the jolts of pain as he tries to settle on the thin mattress, taking measured shallow breaths. He can just reach the extra blanket folded in the crate-turned-beside table, and haphazardly covers himself, in desperate need for the illusion of security it offers. 

_ I’ll be fine. It’s fine. I’m fine,  _ he tells himself as he focuses on trying to fall asleep, an all too familiar prayerful bedtime mantra.  _ I’ll be fine. It’s fine. I’m fine. _

* * *

Michael is jolted from the pleasant reprieve of sleep by the seemingly distant sound of the door banging open and Warden Manes’ furious yell of, “What the _ hell  _ are you doing still in bed, you lazy piece of shit?!” Before he can manage to wrench his eyes open, the warden lifts Michael from his bunk by the collar of his shirt, shaking him roughly, and Michael screams at the sudden, all-encompassing pain of it. The cry is strangled and inhuman, choked off quickly by his inability to draw in more breath. Warden Manes releases him in surprise, and Michael crumples to the floor, as one leg gives out, managing with his good arm to keep his face from smashing into the floor and restarting the nosebleed.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Guerin?” the warden demands, kneeling next to Michael who slumps back again the frame of the bunk for support.

_ It’s a test. The usual test. Okay, it’s okay. I know the answer he wants. _

“Horse,” Michael replies weakly, and it  _ hurts,  _ a sharp stabbing pain radiating through his left side and shoulder, down into his arm. “Threw me,” he manages to finish, gasping with the need for air but plagued with the new jolt of pain that accompanies every breath. 

_ No, no. _ _ It should be better, not worse. It can’t be worse. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. I can’t even breathe. Much less work. Fuck! _

“A _horse_ did this to you?” Jesse says skeptically, reaching for Michael’s face, and he flinches back with a whimper, cursing himself mentally, but _fuck_ what is he going to _do_? The warden hates when there’s paperwork, and if Michael can’t pull himself together, there’s definitely gonna be paperwork.

_ God, he’s gonna be so pissed at me. It’s not fair. It’s not my fault.  _

Despite Michael’s flinch, the warden still grabs his chin in a slightly more gentle version of the familiar hold with the familiar command, “Look at me, Guerin.” 

Michael obeys, because he’s quickly realizing that--God help him--he needs Warden Manes’ mercy to manage these injuries. 

_ Please don’t be mad at me. I couldn’t help that he got so angry. I don’t think I’ve been looking at Alex as much as he thinks. I would never do anything. I know I can’t have anything with him. I know he doesn’t want me. I was only looking—and only sometimes. I didn’t think it would all be this bad. _

“You need medical attention,” the warden says simply. “And I will get it for you,” he goes on, to Michael’s immediate relief , “if, and  _ only  _ if, you tell me the  _ whole truth  _ so that I can call the right people to get you that medical attention without making any undue fuss. Because this does not look like you got thrown or kicked or even _ trampled _ by one of the horses out there. It looks to me like someone beat the hell out of you, and, knowing my sons, I would assume it was Flint?”

Michael just stares in reply, trying desperately to think clearly through the pain and understand whether this is a test or a real question. 

“I asked you a question, boy,” the warden prompts, voice commanding but calm, when Michael closes his eyes in an effort to figure out what answer the warden wants. “Was this Flint?”

Michael opens his eyes again, trying to read the warden's expression through his blurred vision. 

“Last time I’m asking you, Guerin,” he says, tightening his grip on Michael’s chin. “Was. This. Flint?”

“Yes, sir,” he answers quietly, and the warden nods, releasing his hold on Michael to rise back to his feet with a sigh. 

“My son and his  _ goddamn  _ temper,” he mutters angrily, balling his fists. Michael flinches, but instead of taking a swing at Michael the warden moves to the phone on the wall and punches in the number forcefully. “Hey, Fitz, it’s me,” he says into the phone once his call is apparently answered. “The antaran cowboy working for us through AWP took a bad spill off a horse and got himself trampled,” he lies smoothly. There’s a brief pause before Warden Manes says, “I’ll have him up to camp in the next half hour.” He hangs up the phone with a slam that makes Michael wince, and informs him, “You need x-rays. I’m going to finish getting ready for my day, have a quick bite of breakfast, and then we’ll get you to the clinic at camp. You think about your story of what happened while I’m gone, understand? There’ll be a few basic questions for the paperwork.”

Michael doesn’t answer, bites back a retort of whether Warden Manes is too blind to tell Michael needs to go  _ now _ not in half an hour or hell--maybe longer if the warden isn’t feeling rushed. 

“Guerin, don’t try my patience,” he warns, pinching the bridge of his nose like this is all just some silly inconvenience—which to him, it probably is that inconsequential. “I asked if you understood me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

He leaves, and Michael decides it’s not worth trying to get back on the bed. He tries not to count the minutes that tick by, and just focuses on breathing. Before he can lament his situation for too long, Alex appears, as ever, the only person who bothers knocking, even though this time he knocks as he opens the door, not waiting for permission to come inside. He looks worried and a little frantic. 

“Dad said you got hurt in the stable. That he’s taking you to the infirmary at camp.”

“Yep,” Michael replies.

“Oh  _ fuck  _ Michael! Look at you!” he says, rushing further in to kneel next to Michael on the floor. “What happened? Did you break something?”

“You shouldn’t--be in here,” Michael answers. “Suspicious.”

“No, it’s fine,” he whispers. “Dad sent me to make sure you didn’t stop breathing or call your siblings, so...”

“Oh.”

“Where do you keep that bottle of acetone?” Alex jolts up, looking around.

“I’m out.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you  _ tell me that _ ?” Alex rams his hands into his hair and pulls, the panic clearly about to consume him.

_ Because you already take too many risks for me,  _ Michael thinks, but aloud he just says, “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not ‘okay!’ You get hurt because you’re taking my hits and you’re keeping my family’s secrets; the least I can do is keep you stocked with pain killers.” 

“Alex, I need--you to--call Isobel,” Michael says, trying to keep his breaths as shallow as he can without passing out. “If she hears-- from somebody else-- that I’m at--the infirmary--she’ll flip out.”

“Guerin, I--”

“I talked to Iz--last night--told her--I just got thrown--by a horse, so--”

“You did  _ not _ just get thrown by a horse,” Alex says, so loud that Michael has to shut his eyes.

“Yes--I did,” Michael counters tiredly. 

“I’m not an idiot, Guerin! Look at you! No horse did this. It was my fucking asshole of a brother, wasn’t it? I should’ve kept a better eye on him last night after we noticed the mood he was in. I just holed up in my room with my headphones like a coward, and--fuck,  _ Guerin,  _ he could have  _ killed  _ you.”

“He didn’t.”

“If--if you--w--want to tell someone--the doctors or the sheriff or--or whoever--what really happened--I---I--I can--”

Alex starts pacing and pulling at his own hands, absolutely terrified at the prospect of telling anyone the truth. The offer alone is more than Michael has any right to expect, and there’s no reason for Alex to be freaking out like that. 

“Stop it, Alex--It’s okay,” Michael tries to soothe from the ground. 

“Guerin--”

“Just call--Isobel.”

“I should help you get the blood off your face at least, clean you up,” Alex offers, anguish twisting the features of his face. 

“Call first.”

“Guerin, I--”

“ _ Please _ .”

“Fine, okay, yeah, give me the number.” Alex says, reaching for the phone as Michael provides Isobel’s number. He looks miserable as he waits for someone to pick up the other end, so Michael just closes his eyes, focuses on breathing again as he listens in. 

“No, it’s not him, this is Alex Manes. Is this Isobel?...He-- well he can’t come over to the phone. I think he already mentioned to you that he got thrown by a horse last night. It wasn’t as minor as he thought and....no, he can’t come talk himself because he’s sitting down while my dad gets the truck but...well, I don’t think--the cord on the phone isn’t long enough to reach... _ no he can’t just shout _ ,” Alex says, clearly getting frustrated that apparently Isobel isn’t letting him get in much of a word edgewise. Michael can hear the shrill tone of her voice from across the room, giving Alex an earful. 

“We’re concerned he may have bruised or broken a rib, but he’s not in any immediate danger. He wanted me to let you know that we’re taking him up to the clinic at camp for x-rays...No! No, you really don’t need to come just--” Michael opens his eyes to see Alex holding the receiver away from his ear, staring at it with a mixture of shock and amusement. “She just hung up on me.”

“Who?” Warden Manes asks from the door, making both of them jump, and Michael suppresses a whimper at the flash of pain the movement brings. 

“Isobel Evans,” Alex replies. “She’s--”

“I know who she is. I told you to make sure he  _ didn’t  _ call his siblings.”

“They keep tabs on him, don’t they? I thought if we weren’t proactive it would look like we were trying to hide something. Nothing to hide about getting hurt on the job, right?” 

Warden Manes frowns but ultimately sighs. “Alright, fine.”

“She said she was calling their brother and meeting us at the clinic,” Alex adds. “I tried to tell her that wasn’t necessary, but--”

“Those two never did know their place or how to listen when a human talks,” Warden Manes mutters. “Come on, we’d better get going then. Guerin, can you walk?”

“I don’t think so; my knee is--” the warden cuts him off with an angry flick of his hand.

“Alex, help me haul him out to the truck.”

It’s slow going, but the warden really had pulled his truck up to the bunkhouse to make the walk as short as possible. Michael tries, for the sake of his pride, not to blubber and whine with the pain of getting to the truck. He manages to tamp down the worst of it, he’s far from silent. Once they’ve buckled Michael into the back seat of the cab, the warden and Alex climb in up front. Alex looks like he might vomit. Warden Manes just seems to be quietly fuming.

_ Fuck, please don’t be pissed at me. This isn’t my fault. It really isn’t.  _

“Tell Alex what happened while we drive,” the warden orders as they pull out of the driveway.

This time the prompt is undoubtedly a test—was Michael really working on his story while the warden was gone as he’d been instructed. 

“I--I honestly—don’t remember—very much,” Michael says, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the seat behind him, just concentrating on not passing out as the motion of the truck leaves him lightheaded and a bit nauseated. “It all happened— pretty fast,” he pauses for a few breaths. “You know how--Victor--he’s a real piece of work— I guess—maybe— I didn’t—get the saddle on— tight enough.”

“Good,” the warden says, “keep going,” he bids.

“Dad, look at him,” Alex protests with a glance back to Michael. “He’s—”

“I said  _ keep going,  _ Guerin,” The warden grabs Alex’s jaw and shoves it forward again and Michael throws up some of the blood he swallowed last night in his mouth. He doesn’t dare spit it out.

“So I—I lost my seat—and I must’ve—got under his hooves—but I don’t— really remember—the details—I think— maybe— I hit my head—when I fell,” he finishes, grimacing in pain as they turn onto the bumpy dirt road that leads to camp.

“Good job, Guerin,” the warden says, the way humans praise their pets, and Michael would be annoyed if he wasn’t in so much damn pain. 

The truck comes to a halt outside the dingey, faded, three story brick building that houses the clinic, and Michael yelps as his weight shifting with the truck's deceleration presses his chest and abdomen into the seatbelt. The warden sends Alex for a wheelchair, and just as the two of them help Michael get seated, the sight of the sheriff's cruiser coming down the road sends a jolt of panic through Michael. 

“Warden, I swear--I didn’t--say anything--to anyone--”

“She’s probably just giving your siblings a ride,” Alex reasons. 

“For Guerin’s sake that better be it,” the warden replies, keeping a neutral expression though his tone is icey. “You stay out here to meet them, Alex. Tell them we’re not delaying Guerin’s medical care so he can socialize. They’re not allowed past the front desk with him anyway.”

“Yes, sir,” Alex says, still looking like he might puke.

“And get that mopey look off your face for fuck’s sake,” the warden adds. “Every decent cowboy takes a hard fall a time or two. It comes with the job, doesn’t it, Guerin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Let's get this over with,” he adds, leaving Alex on the curb to wait for the sheriff to pull in and park. 

He pushes Michael through the automatic doors. A young woman with auburn hair pulled back in a tight bun greets them from behind the reception desk.

“Good morning, Warden Manes,” she greets. “The doctor called a few minutes ago to let us know an urgent case was coming in. He said to take the patient straight in for scans.” She gestures to an orderly who hurries forward to take over pushing Michael. “Would you like some coffee while you wait, Warden?” She wonders, as they push Michael farther away he hears the warden decline the coffee, saying he needs to get to work. 

Michael repeats the vague story he concocted to the orderly and technician who give him some pain medicine and washes the blood off his face and out of his hair before they cut Michael’s clothes off and get him in a hospital gown. He tells it again to the doctor—Edwin P. Fitzgerald,  _ Doctor of Extraterrestrial Medicine  _ according to his nametag—who examines Michael’s x-rays and CT scan without comment. When Dr. Fitzgerald doesn’t offer any insight after he finishes examining the scans, Michael wonders, “What do they mean?”

“Nothing that can’t be fixed; nothing for you to worry yourself about.”

“But—”

“Just a quick operation and you’ll be on the mend.”

“An  _ operation _ ?!”

“Nothing to be alarmed about,” the doctor says placidly. “I would explain, but it’s all a bit complicated. No need to get you all worked up.”

“But I—”

“Guerin, I have other patients waiting. I can’t waste any more time with you,” the doctor says sharply.

“I just—” He cuts off his protest as the doctor begins to fill a syringe from a vial he pulled from the cabinet. “They already gave me--pain medicine before--the scans,” he says. 

“Oh, I know. This isn’t for pain,” the doctor replies as he pushes the syringe into the port on Michael’s IV. “You’ll just fall right to sleep, and when you’re awake again we’ll have you all fixed up.”

“But what--does that mean?--What does—”

“Someone with more time will explain it all to you,” Dr. Fitzgerald says, hanging Michael’s chart on the hook at the end of the gurney on his way out the door.

It’s not the first time Michael has been left with no choice but to try and decipher his own chart if he wants any answers, but usually he’s not fighting against the pull of painkillers and what was apparently a hell of a sedative. He manages to sit up with a great deal of effort and uncomfortable pressure if not outright pain in his abdomen, but before he can reach for the chart, everything turns white, and the world fades into oblivion...

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details of warnings for Severe Physical Abuse, Xenophobia, Homophobia:   
> Flint attacks Michael, blaming his anger on supposed observations that Michael has a crush on Alex and is paying Alex too much attention. He breaks Michael's arm, bloodies his nose, chokes him, and kicks him repeatedly all while threatening and insulting Michael, including the use of some slurs. The full extent of Michael's injuries is not fully discussed until next chapter, but there is insinuation of broken arm and rib and Michael is having some trouble breathing. The warden finds Michael the next morning and he does ultimately receive medical care; however, the chapter ends on a bit of a cliff-hanger with Michael being sedated before he is fully informed of his diagnosis and the details of the operation they will do to fix the damage.


	5. Chapter 5

“Time to wake up, sleepyhead,” Isobel says, and for just a moment he expects her to add a comment about Mom having breakfast ready—and then reality comes rushing back in. 

“Hey, Iz,” Michael says, opening his eyes slowly against the bright fluorescent lights above his bed. “You didn’t hav’ta come.”

“Of  _ course  _ I came! You were hurt! You had  _ surgery! _ ”

“Yeah, you could call it a rough day,” he agrees, managing a small smile for her benefit. 

“You scared the hell out of us,” Isobel says, leaning in and reaching a hand out toward him. Michael flinches away before he can stop the reflex, and Isobel frowns in worry. 

“Don’t. Everything still aches,” he says, trying to explain away the reaction.

“Oh, they said you shouldn’t be in much pain, let me call the nurse,” she says, reaching for the button on the side of the bed.

“Thanks,” Michael says, though he doesn’t expect the effort to do much. 

He studies his sister a little more. She looks pretty put together, at first glance, but Michael can see the puffiness around her eyes that indicates she cried earlier; notices that her usually perfect nails have been bitten down unevenly; and rather than having her hair down in carefully-styled waves or curls, she’s got it haphazardly in a ponytail with stray hairs flying everywhere. She really has spent all this time worrying at his bedside, and the rush of fondness that accompanies the realization has Michael reaching to squeeze her hand and smile.

“I thought you were supposed to be a badass cowboy,” she teases, smiling back, though it’s forced. “Not a rookie who gets his ass kicked by a horse. I told you last night you sounded horrible and should go to the clinic.”

“Thought I could just sleep it off.”

“You’re such a moron, Michael. You can’t ‘just sleep off’ a broken arm, three cracked ribs, a dislocated kneecap, and contusions to your spleen!”

“They told you all that?”

_ Cause they wouldn’t tell me shit... _

“Yeah, Dr. Fitz got me and Max up to speed as soon as he finished your surgery. You’re in great hands; don’t worry. We’ve been coming to him for years now.”

_ Oh “Dr. Fitz” got y’all up to speed, huh?  _ Micheal thinks bitterly.  _ Well, at least he’ll pay attention to someone in this family I guess...  _

“Great,” Michael says aloud. “Where’s Max? I expected to be called ‘suicidally idiotic’ at least half a dozen times by now.”

“He went into work once the doctor confirmed after the first procedure that you were stable and your prognosis was good,” she says. “I’m sure he’ll be by later.”

“First procedure?” he says. “Does that mean there was more than one?”

“They were able to manage the internal bleeding with a laparoscopic operation. That stabilized your blood pressure well enough that they took care of resetting your knee and handled the break to your arm. Dr. Fitz said it was a pretty severe fracture to your arm, so they stabilized it with a steel rod and three screws. It freaked us out a little that the break was so bad that you needed a  _ rod  _ to fix it, but he said it’s not uncommon to have really severe damage in equestrian injuries. It all sounds terrible and of course you’ll need time to recover, but from what the doctor says, you were really lucky actually. You could have died!”

_ Probably came a lot closer to dying than I really realized... _

“Yeah,” Michael says aloud, letting all the information Isobel has shared sink in. “Lucky…”

A nurse comes in, responding promptly to the call to Michael’s surprise, and adjusts something on Michael’s IV, which she says should manage his pain more effectively. She’s the same nurse who did his intake without so much as asking his name or meeting his eye, all while chatting to the tech who helped her as if Michael wasn’t even in the room. But now she’s all smiles, asking Isobel if she needs any water or coffee, wondering if she can get Michael another pillow, asking if he’d prefer lime or grape jello with his dinner. Michael had assumed there was no second or third bed in the room because it’s smaller than most of the hospital rooms he’s been in, but now he wonders whether maybe it’s just one of the nice, private rooms they have for the more important patients.

_ The perks of AFP designation?  _ Michael wonders.  _ Getting treated like a human instead of the family dog? _

_ This is all such bullshit. _

Isobel can tell he’s annoyed, but he lets her think it’s just because of the pain and the fuss. She makes him eat entirely too much of the tasteless food they bring on a tray for him. He refuses to take more than a bite until she tries it too, just to be a brat and make her appreciate how truly terrible it is. It gets her laughing as she tries to say with a straight face that it doesn’t taste bad and fails miserably. They watch reruns on the boxy old television mounted in the corner for a while until visiting hours end and Isobel has to leave. All in all it’s not that bad of an evening.

Michael isn’t left on his own for long after Isobel departs. He’s attempting to get some sleep when a man enters the room carrying a very official-looking clipboard. He doesn’t look that much older than Michael, hair cut in a businesslike buzz cut and dark purple polo shirt tucked neatly into his khaki dresses pants. The logo embroidered on the polo reads “GRACE-US, Antaran Welfare Unit.” 

“Good evening. You’re Michael Guerin?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Dylan Parker with the Roswell Antaran Welfare Unit. I just have a few routine questions for you.”

“Questions about what?”

“Just confirming the details of your accident. It’s protocol to make a clear record any time an antaran requires a serious medical procedure.” 

For all his businesslike appearance, the guy gives off the same general vibe as the techs who come in to ask how Michael’s doing while they robotically check his vitals and write them down. It’s a checklist this guy needs to get through--not a  _ real _ conversation he’s looking to have.

“Oh.”

“Nothing to be worried about, just answer honestly,” he says, tone almost absent-minded, as if he’s sure he already knows the outcome of this conversation. 

“Okay, sure, but I already told the doctor what happened.”

“Of course, and we’re not saying we don’t believe you. It’s just protocol—just something we do every time in a case like this where an antaran has had some very bad injuries,” he says, rephrasing as if maybe Michael wasn’t intelligent to understand his first phrasing of ‘protocol’. “Can you tell me what happened, in your own words, Guerin?”

“I help train and take care of horses at the warden’s ranch through AWP. The horse I was working with, Victor, he’s a good horse, but he's a real piece of work. I guess I didn’t get the saddle on tight enough? But whatever happened, I fell off and must have gotten under his hooves. I really don’t remember much. I think I must’ve hit my head when I fell.”

“You didn’t seek assistance from your guardian?”

“The warden wasn’t home yet, and I didn’t think I was hurt all that bad. I just went to lay down in my bunk to try and rest.”

“Dr. Fitzgerald’s notes indicate your injuries are all consistent with a riding accident,” Dylan says, flipping through the papers on his clipboard, “and confirms that the adrenaline and possible shock brought on by the injuries would explain why you didn’t understand the severity of your injuries.” He looks up at Michael, smiles kindly and translates, “Your body’s normal reaction to this kind of accident explains why you didn’t understand how badly you were hurt.”

“That makes sense,” Michael says.

_ Makes sense how I could move at all once Flint was finished. Makes sense how I stayed coherent enough to talk to Iz. Makes sense why the warden wanted this doctor to do my intake so he could explain away all the oddities.  _

“Did anyone stop you from getting treatment?” Dylan asks, clearly reading verbatim from a sheet on his clipboard. “Did you ask for help but your guardian or another human ignored you?”

“No, the warden called the clinic and brought me in when he found out I was hurt.”

“Have you now received the medical treatment you asked for?”

“Yeah, I mean. I didn’t really ask for anything so much as they just decided and did stuff to me, but…”

“Well, the scans spoke for themselves, I’m sure,” Dylan placates. “There will be instructions for you on how to take care of yourself post-surgery. These will be explained to you and it is imperative that you follow the doctor’s instructions. Are you concerned at all that your on-site AWP accommodations will not be sufficient to allow you to follow your post-surgical protocols, especially as they relate to personal hygiene?” He glances at Michael and begins to rephrase, “I have to read it word for word from the approved language on the form, but, to rephrase, I’m just asking—”

“I understood the question,” Michael says irritably. “Yeah, I know I have to do what they say so I don’t mess any of the injuries up. No, I’m not worried about my accomodations at the ranch. I’ve got a whole little bunkhouse set-up to myself. It’s great. No problems.”

“Wonderful,” Dylan says.

“Do you have any concerns about future similar injuries if you continue this AWP?”

“No,” Michael lies.

“Would you like to request a different AWP?”

“No.”

“Would you say you are satisfied with your current AWP as a whole and can confirm you would like to continue in your work despite this injury?”

“Yeah.”

“Excellent,” Dylan says, clicking his pen shut and putting it away. “Not that we’d expect anything less from the warden, of course, but we've got to get all the paperwork taken care of. I’m sure you know what a stickler for paperwork he is.”

“Yep.”

“Well, I’ll leave you my card,” Dylan says, crossing the room to Michael’s bed and offering the small white business card. “Have you ever operated a telephone?”

“Yes.”

“This number here, on top, is the number to call the phone in my office,” he explains, clearly assuming Michael can’t read the designation printed beside it. “This second one is my cell phone.”

“What for?”

“If you would like to change your answers to any of the questions we went through, if your guardian or any human refuses a request for medical care, or if you become worried about your follow-up care, you can give me a call and I’ll try to help clear things up, okay?”

Michael notes that Dylan isn’t offering to make sure he gets care, he’s offering “to clear things up.” As if the only possible problem would be Michael just being too dumb to understand what’s going on with himself medically.

“Sure,” Michael says. 

“Again, not issues we’re worried about with Warden Manes, just protocol.”

“Right. Thanks.”

“I’ll leave you to get some rest. Have a good night, Guerin.”

“Thanks.”

The door shuts behind him and Michael closes his eyes again. He does his best to stomp down the frustration and anger, it won’t do him any good anyway. He’s just another random statistic in the system. No point in fuming over things he can’t change. The door opens slowly not ten minutes after Dylan left, Michael opens his eyes, expecting to see a tech here to check his IV or something, but to his surprise it’s Max who peeks around the door, smiling when he makes eye contact. 

“Good, you’re still awake!” he says, hurrying in. “Sorry I wasn’t here before but Iz said you were doing pretty well—in good spirits and all.”

“Sure, all things considered,” Michael confirms. “Aren’t you gonna catch hell for being here after hours? You’re supposed to  _ enforce  _ the rules, Cadet, not break them.”

“Warden Manes gave me special permission,” Max says to Michael’s surprise. “I can’t stay long though.”

“Special permission from the warden? Really?”

“You gave us all a pretty good scare, Michael, even the warden I think.”

_ Yeah, a scare that his cover would be blown maybe—that he’d have to spend time covering Flint’s tracks and finding a new antaran to bully. _

“I wish there was something more I could do to help,” Max says, reaching to trace fingers lightly over the bandages on Michael’s arm. The words are innocuous enough, but Michael knows he means  _ I wish I could just heal you myself.  _ “It’s good you’re looking so much better already though,” he says, resting his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “I bet you’ll be good as new in no time.”

“Better than new,” Micheal replies, “didn’t Isobel tell you I got new hardware? Does the metal rod classify me as a cyborg? Or does it have to be more tech than that?”

“Oh, no, you don’t get to claim anything as cool as ‘cyborg.’ You’re stuck with suicidally idiotic cowboy.” Max declares. “Unless you asked for a change in AWP?”

“Nah,” Michael says, “I know you pulled strings to get me this gig; I’m not going to waste it.”

_ Even if that does just add more credence to my classification as suicdally idiotic...  _

“Yeah, but if it’s this dangerous--or even if you just don’t want to anymore--I could talk to--I dunno, somebody. Me and Isobel could try to find you something else without you having to leave again.”

“It takes more than this to scare me off,” Michael assures, “but thanks.” 

“Boys,” the warden says from the doorway, making Michael jump—but Max is turning to look at the door so he doesn’t seem to notice Michael’s reaction. 

_ What’s the warden doing here? What does he want with us?! _

“I know you’d like to visit more, but I really must insist that Guerin get his rest,” the warden says sternly. 

“Yes, sir, of course,” Max says. “Thank you—for making the call so I could stop by. We really appreciate it.”

“I saw the sheriff out front,” the warden says. “You shouldn’t keep her waiting, Evans.”

“Right,” Max agrees, turning to Michael with a quick “We’ll talk soon, okay?” 

“Sure, talk soon.”

He leaves the room and the warden shuts the door slowly, Michael tenses at the sound of it clicking fully closed. He barely dares to breathe as the warden moves slowly to stand by the bed. Michael’s eyes are locked on his own feet, registering the warden’s movements out of his peripheral, but unable to look at him directly, feeling, as ever, like some prey animal hoping that a lack of movement will allow him to go unnoticed. He’s unsure what the warden plans to do exactly, but his body braces nevertheless, every inch of him tensing in spite of the pain it brings. He flinches when the warden reaches toward him, eyes shut tight as he presses his head back farther into the pillow. 

“You know I expect you to look at me when I’m talking to you, Guerin,” the warden says, hand on Michael’s chin, forcing it up just slightly, neck exposed even more as Michael opens his eyes to the warden looming over him. For just one moment he has the absurd thought that the warden is going to slit his throat, but he stamps down the illogical thought and forces himself to listen. 

“You’ll go home tomorrow on bed rest with instructions on how to take care of yourself. No work until you’re cleared for it at your follow-up, but that doesn’t mean I want you just galavanting around. I expect you to do as they tell you. It’s not a vacation; you’re healing so you can get back to your job, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There was an old television in the storage shed that I’ve instructed Mr. Hubbard to put in the bunkhouse for you. You may watch anything the antenna will pick up. You may also go out for a meal with your siblings once every two weeks provided it doesn’t interfere with their work—or yours once you’re cleared to start back.”

Michael knows his mouth is gaping open as he stares up at the warden in disbelief, but he can’t for the life of him connect the dots to understand what the hell game or test this is. 

“You exercised impressive diplomacy today, Guerin,” the warden says, “and, in my household, loyalty is rewarded.”

And  _ there’s  _ the explanation Michael was looking for, the justification. He kept the warden’s secret, avoided trouble, so now the warden allows Michael’s life to be slightly less miserable. He reaches slowly to grab Michael’s chin and his gaze meets Michael’s, eyes cold and calculating.

“I hope that I don’t need to remind you that  _ dis _ loyalty—toward me or _ either  _ of my sons— in  _ any  _ form,  _ any  _ form  _ at all _ will absolutely. not. be. tolerated. Is that clear?” he asks, voice all the more terrifying in its quiet demand.

_ Oh fuck, Flint told you why he did this, didn’t he?  _

_ He told you that he thinks I have a crush on Alex. I told him it wasn’t; I didn’t tell anyone what Flint did; so if I go home and change my behavior, I get rewarded with a TV and time with Max and Isobel. _

_ But if I don’t change how I behave toward Alex--if you think I really do have a crush on him...then it’s more of this--and not from Flint needing an excuse to blow off steam--no, if there’s a next time, you’ll deal with me yourself, and you know the system well enough to make the injuries really look like an accident. _

_ Hell, you could probably make my  _ death _ look like an accident and no one would bat an eye.  _

_ I’m in so, so fucking far over my head.  _

_ Fuck. _

“Yes, sir, it’s clear,” Michael assures, voice hitching a bit in trepidation, which puts a small smile on the warden’s face.

“Good,” he says, releasing his hold on Michael’s face and leaving Michael trembling with the gravity of the threat long after the warden is gone.

  
  


* * *

Dr. Fitzgerald comes the next morning to discuss Michael’s post-operative care and at-home physical therapy. Isobel is there--arrived the moment visiting hours started again--with Noah accompanying her. She asks--so does Noah,to Michael’s surprise-- if the doctor is _absolutely_ _sure_ Michael is really ready to be released after less than 48 hours, and he assures them that it’s “standard” protocol for Michael’s level of injury. Michael agrees with the doctor, eager to get the hell away from the bright lights and antiseptic smell of the hospital and all the bad memories that accompany them. 

Isobel and Noah offer to take Michael home and get him settled in. He does his best to decline, still hesitant to have anyone compare the state of the bunkhouse to human standard living quarters, but there’s no convincing Isobel to “just drop him off.” Instead he just hedges his bets as best he can with comments about not needing her advice on interior decorating and never being a fan of clutter. He mentions that it probably looks like someone got murdered, since his nose was bleeding when he came in from the barn, just in case Mr. Hubbard didn’t clean up when he brought the television the Warden promised. 

“Honestly, Michael, you made it sound like the worst kind of man cave,” she says as they go into the bunk house. “It’s actually very...quaint.”

“Nice euphemism,” Michael says. “It’s bare bones, but it’s a good place.” 

Mr. Hubbard--or someone--did clean up the blood that was spattered around, thank god. There’s now a bulky, old television set about three feet high sitting on the floor across from the sofa now, with bunny ear antenna on top. As much as he hates to admit it, he’s really excited for the television, to play around with it and have it all to himself. 

“I really would  _ love  _ to help you spruce it up,” Isobel says. “Just a little bit of--” 

“Absolutely not,” Michael replies. “I don’t need a room that looks like an IKEA catalog. This does just fine.”

She sighs at him and rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t argue further. Michael hobbles his way to his bunk, honestly still exhausted and just ready to crash. Isobel makes a fuss of getting pillows together, and Noah helps without much comment. Michael finds it just a little unsettling how hard it is to get a read on Noah Bracken, Director of the Regional Chapter of the Antaran Rights Campaign. Sure, he knows the basics--that Isobel’s known him for years because of Mrs. Evans’ active--and generous--membership in the organization. That he let Isobel craft this AFP-to-AWP position to be whatever she wanted. That he “really wants to make a difference” according to Isobel and he “really understands how big a process it is to manage and how painstakingly slow it can be to make real change.” At the end of the day, it doesn’t  _ really  _ matter whether he gets to know Noah. All that matters is that he’s good to Isobel, and she’s happy working with the ARC. 

“Oh, I almost forgot! The box in the car,” she says, and sweeps out the door leaving Michael to an uncomfortable silence with Noah.

“Sure you’ll manage okay out here by yourself?” Noah wonders. “It really wouldn’t be an issue for us to arrange for her to stay with you for a while.”

“Her and Max fussing over me will just stress me out,” Michael replies, “but don’t tell her I said that.”

“Just make sure you at least answer the phone when she calls, or I don’t think any of us will be able to stop her from coming over to break the door down and check on you. You really gave them both a scare.”

“They overreact,” Michael says. 

“Maybe,” Noah agrees, “but they also know a lot more than you give them credit for. They might not know details, but they know life hasn’t been very good to you since the three of you were separated. Let them ease their guilt a little. It won’t hurt anything but your pride.”

_ You don’t know what you’re talking about. If I let them get to close--get into the middle of this shit with the warden--there’ll be hell to pay for all of us. I get the feeling not even the ARC and Roswell Sheriff Department are a match for Jesse Manes and GRACE-US.  _

Aloud Michael just says, “you’ve probably got a point.” 

Isobel returns with a cardboard box overflowing with items. She literally tucks Michael into his bed with a vivid turquoise and gray quilt, despite his huffing in feigned annoyance. 

“I’d put these away, but while you’re healing they’ll be easier to get from the counter,” she tells him as she unloads a lot of his favorite foods--or at least eight-year-old Michael’s favorite foods--onto the countertop: easymac, spaghetti-o’s, chicken noodle soup, saltines, a giant bag of nacho cheese doritos, four packages of Skittles, and then peanut butter, raspberry jam, and loaf bread for sandwiches.

“You don’t do anything halfway, do you?” Michael asks, smiling. 

“Well, if you were half  _ civilized  _ I would have made you up some casseroles to put in the oven and some green chili mac, but I didn’t trust you to actually put any of that to good use and I wasn’t going to waste my time,” she informs him, flipping her hair back out of the way. 

Her face softens though as she comes to sit on the edge of Michael’s bunk. “I know it’s all simple, kid, stuff, but--I thought--comfort food, ya know? I can’t do much, but I can make sure you’re not stuck with boring meals because you don’t feel well enough to cook.”

“It’s sweet of you, Iz. I appreciate it. I just wish you’d quit worrying so much.”

“I wish you’d quit giving me reasons to worry,” Isobel counters. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Michael offers, yawning.

“Get some rest,” Isobel says. “And stay in touch. I mean it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Michael replies, using his good arm to give a mocking salute.

She rolls her eyes and follows Noah out the door, shutting it gently behind them.

* * *

When Michael wakes what must be hours later, he can hear the rukus out in the barn all the way from his place in the bunkhouse. All he can do is hope to god it’s the warden going off on Flint, and not Alex. He wonders vaguely if he shouldn't have tried so hard to persuade Max and Isobel he didn’t need them to stay to nurse him through the next several days. If they were here, maybe the warden would have to put a lid on his temper for a week or so, but bottling it up would only delay the inevitable--even worse, what if he lost his temper in front of Max or Iz? Or  _ on  _ Max or Iz? Sure the sling on his arm and the brace on his knee and the pain when he breathes are no  _ treat _ , but it’s all manageable. Not worth the risk of having his siblings around the warden any more than they have to be. 

The warden lets himself in sometime around eight, waking Michael from a doze. He doesn’t look angry, just annoyed, as he gives Michael his requisite medications and a protein bar. He surveys the items Isobel left with mild interest, correctly supposing, “from your siblings?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t mind this time, but I don’t want a habit of them hanging around or dropping by, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Michael sleeps again once the Warden leaves, and when he wakes again the red numbers from the bedside clock read that it’s just past midnight. He realizes the sound that woke him is a quiet knock at the door, and Alex peeks his head in whispering, “Hey, Guerin?”

Michael’s heart races. If Flint catches Alex out here--or the warden--- the stakes are even higher than before--maybe the stakes are  _ too  _ high now. He could-- _ should _ \-- tell Alex to go away, but he wants to see for himself that Alex is okay, that it wasn’t him out in the barn getting wailed on earlier, so against his better judgment Michael says, “Yeah, I’m up; come in if you want.”

Alex closes the door behind him slowly. He doesn’t reach to turn on the light, and Michael doesn’t ask him to. The nearly full moon shining in through the windows does a pretty good job of illuminating the space anyway, but Michael suggests, “The TV might give off a pretty good glow without too much light.” 

“Good idea,” Alex says, crossing to turn it on. The first two channels he flips to are just snowy nothing, but the third pops up with reruns of some old, black and white television show. He turns the volume almost all the way down and comes to sit on the vacant bed beside Michael’s.

“That wasn’t you the warden had out in the barn earlier, was it?” Michael asks. He doesn’t see any injuries, but that doesn’t mean much, and Alex has the forlorn, subdued look that often follows trips to the barn with his dad. 

“Nah, it was Flint. Dad’s still pretty pissed. He hates when there’s paperwork,” Alex says bitterly. “Like the real problem isn’t that you could have fucking  _ died. _ ”

“You’re worse than Max and Isobel,” Michael says dismissively. “I’ll be fine. Even get a TV and a vacation from work for a little while. Doctor’s orders.”

“It’s not  _ funny _ , Guerin. Don’t joke.”

“Look, not that I don’t appreciate the check-in, but you really shouldn’t be out here,” Michael says. “I know we’ve been making it kind of a regular thing but--

“Are you saying that because  _ you _ don’t want me coming out here to visit?” he asks. “Or are you saying it because  _ Flint  _ told you not to talk to me anymore while he was---” Alex gestures at Michael generally, apparently unable to bring himself to say anything in the realm of “while he was beating the ever-loving shit out of you” aloud.

Michael doesn’t answer Alex’s question--for all his skill at lying, he can’t manage to make himself lie and say  _ he _ doesn’t want Alex here; honestly, Michael thinks he might rather go another couple rounds with Flint than see the look it would put on Alex’s face.

“That’s what I thought,” Alex says, settling in on the bed, sitting back against the headboard and crossing his arms. “So are you going to tell me what  _ really  _ happened now?” Alex asks. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” Alex replies. “This wasn’t just his usual temper--not that his usual isn’t bad enough.”

“It’s not important,” Michael persists.

“Yes, it  _ is. _ ”

“Would you just let it go?

“No, because I have a guess what happened. I’d just rather hear it from you.” When Michael doesn’t respond he adds earnestly, “You’ve got  _ nothing _ to be embarrassed about or ashamed of, Guerin.” 

_ Oh, fuck. He’s noticed, too. God, I must be so much more obvious than I thought. I must seem so fucking pathetic and eager--like some stupid, lovesick puppy--or worse like a gross, pervy alien freak drooling over the warden’s son and--and--well, so much for this friendship. If he’s noticed and now his family has too… Fuck.  _

“I--uh--what?” Michael replies, just trying to buy time to get his head together--to work up some convincing story or lie, but he’s drawing a complete blank on how to try and explain his apparently obvious interest in Alex. 

“If anything, it’s  _ my _ fault,” Alex goes on. “But definitely nothing you did wrong.”

“ _ Your  _ fault?” Michael repeats, incredulous and now thoroughly confused. “That’s  _ definitely  _ a load of horse shit, unless you’re telling me that you gave Flint the idea to come beat the hell out of me.”

“No, of course not!”

“Then, it’s not your fault; you can’t help that they’re assholes. And anyway it doesn’t matter ‘cause it’s done and over and I’m fine, so let’s just forget it ever happened and--”

“Look, it  _ is  _ my fault because Flint told  _ me _ to do it, and I wouldn’t,” Alex blurts, voice wrought with shame as he looks away from Michael. “So I guess when he came home pissed the other night, he decided to vent his anger he’d just handle it himself instead and he nearly fucking killed you!” 

“What are you talking about, Alex?”

“Flint told me a couple of days ago that I’d better--” Alex stops, censoring himself with “well, the gist of it was that I needed to do something to send you a message to stay the hell away from me and respect my place as a human and all kinds of xenophobic, homophobic  _ bullshit  _ like that---and I told him he was crazy and paranoid. That you haven’t been doing anything wrong. I should’ve warned you that Flint might try something,” Alex says, “or--or kept a better eye on him or--or done  _ something _ . I just--I never thought he’d go  _ this  _ far. You’d think I’d know my own brother better by now but…”

“Alex, I don’t know what Flint said to you about me--I just know what he said when he was...and--he--he said something about how I look at you,” Michael stammers, trying desperately to form a coherent sentence, but he can’t seem to do anything but ramble like an idiot. “And about how I go out with you on rides, and that I was getting ideas about you, but--but it’s not--it’s not what he thinks it is. I swear. I don’t think--I didn’t mean to seem so--I wouldn’t ever--I know I’m just--” 

“It’s  _ okay _ , Guerin,” Alex interjects, “Like I told Flint, he’s just being crazy and paranoid.”

“Right, yeah, of course, cause I wouldn't want you to think...” 

_ That I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with you… _

“We’re friends, right? Just--just good friends--not that Flint knows that--but, just to be clear and everything. We’re just friends.”

_ What else could we be? Even if I ever managed to work up the nerve... _

Michael must be imagining the melancholy on Alex’s face when he replies, “Of course; we’re just friends.”

“Yeah, right. Exactly.”

“And since Flint doesn’t  _ have  _ friends so much as minions at work who are terrified of him--he reads too much into it,” Alex goes on. “But it’s definitely not good that Flint noticed, and I’m sure he’s told my dad by now, so…”

Michael doesn’t have the heart to tell Alex that based on his conversation with the warden at the hospital, Flint _definitely_ told the warden about his suspicions about Michael and Alex. Silence grows between them. Michael hates that Alex still isn’t looking at him, staring down at his hands instead, fiddling with the drawstring of his hoodie. 

“I don’t want to make trouble for you, Alex,” Michael says finally. “It’s okay if--”

“I’m not worried about trouble for  _ me _ ,” Alex replies. 

“Well, trouble for  _ us  _ I mean,” Michael says, “but I don’t want Flint and the warden to win, either. They get enough as it is.” 

“We’re just gonna have to be more careful,” Alex says, “if you want to keep being friends--hanging out and stuff--but I don’t want you to feel  _ obligated  _ or anything.”

“I don’t feel obligated. I  _ do  _ wanna keep hanging out,” Michael replies, maybe too quickly, but a small smile breaks over Alex’s face at the words. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, of course. Besides, I think you’re the only person on the planet who actually likes my company-- except Max and Isobel, but I think they’re genetically obligated or something.”

“You sell yourself short,” Alex says, with a hint of the exasperation Max and Isobel have for Michael’s self-deprecating humor. “Pretty sure if you got out of this hellhole you’d have plenty of friends.”

“It’s really not that bad here, all things considered,” Michael says. 

_ Besides, I couldn’t leave you here alone with them even if I wanted to. _

Alex fixes him with a solemn look. “Guerin, how many times do I have to point out that he could’ve  _ killed  _ you?” 

“I’m gonna be  _ fine _ ,” Michael says with a roll of his eyes. “It’s all manageable.”

“ _ How _ can you call this  _ ‘manageable’ _ ?!”

“Because it  _ is _ .”

“It  _ shouldn’t  _ be!”

“What do you want me to say, Alex?” Michael demands, losing patience. “Of  _ course  _ it shouldn’t be manageable, but nothing about this whole goddamn system is what it  _ should  _ be! It just is what it is, and you survive it the best you can,” he rants. “Do you want me to  _ pretend  _ that this is the  _ first  _ time a human has sent me to the hospital? The first time I’ve lied about what happened--or whether a human denied access to care--or whether I wanted to leave? Because I thought we didn’t have to lie in this friendship. I don’t have to lie about the shitty road that led me here, which is why I’m able to brush all this off as just “manageable,” and you don’t have to lie about the hellish childhood you’ve had that means you can categorize this as “manageable” just as easily as I can, whether you say it out loud or not!”

“You’re right,” Alex says finally. “We’ve both dealt with so much it just….” 

Silence grows between them, and Michael can tell Alex’s mind is somewhere else. He waits patiently for a few minutes more before Alex stares vaguely in Michael’s direction. 

“You know, Flint did the same thing to a guy in my homeroom back in eighth grade. It wasn’t this bad--he just broke the kid’s nose and scared the hell out of him. Threatened him within an inch of his life if he didn’t stay away from me,” Alex says, sounding lost in the memory. “Flint’s such a homophobic asshole that I guess he’d rather beat half the world to death than admit he’s got a gay little brother.” 

Michael had had his suspicions--more like  _ hope _ really--that Alex wasn’t straight, but he’s surprised to hear Alex admit it so freely. Alex shakes off the melancholy and grins at Michael’s apparently obvious surprise at the statement. 

“What? Just because  _ they’re _ in denial about it doesn’t mean  _ I _ am. Maybe I don’t know what the hell to do about it exactly--and yeah, I’m only  _ officially  _ “out” to my best friend and her mom, but I still know who I am. And I’m not ashamed I’m gay, even if Flint and Dad are.”

Michael doesn’t have the words to reply at first, absorbing the truth Alex has shared-- wondering whether they should have had this conversation a long time ago.

“That’s-- that’s good,” Michael says finally. “I mean, even just knowing and accepting it for yourself is a big deal. Knowing yourself is half the battle, right? You’ll figure out the rest. If they’ve got issues with it, that’s on them. You’re right; you’ve got  _ nothing _ to be ashamed of.”

Alex smiles, but he looks a little confused. “So it doesn’t bother you?”

“Of course not,” Michael says. 

“Really? ‘Cause it’s okay if--”

“It doesn’t change a thing as far as I’m concerned,” Michael declares. “You’re still the same person you’ve been the whole time we’ve been friends.”

_ Except that now it’s gonna be even harder to stop daydreaming about kissing you, and…  _ Michael quickly derails that train of thought before he gives himself away.

“Thanks,” Alex says, his shy smile becoming more of a grin, like he really expected Michael’s reaction to the information to be a bad one.

“What’re friends for, right?” Michael replies, returning the smile.

They end the night by turning the television volume up and watching reruns until Michael’s exhausted, healing body gets the better of him again and he drifts off to sleep with the sound of Alex laughing quietly at the antics of I Love Lucy from the other bed.

* * *

“Bringing my rations?” Michael wonders when Alex announces himself and enters the next morning. 

“Yeah, it’s not much, just scrambled eggs,” he replies, “sorry.”

“Hey, it’s food, and I didn’t have to move to make it, so I’m not complaining,” Michael replies. It’s not like his normal food supplies are anything beyond basic staples and MREs anyway. “Did--uh--your dad happen to send any of those pills the doc gave me?” he wonders, trying not to sound too desperate. 

“Yeah, he did,” Alex says. “In fact, I’m supposed to make sure you take it and don’t start to hoard them to just get high later,” he adds, rolling his eyes. “Ya know, because you’re gonna put recreation above the horrible pain you’re currently still in.” 

“It’s not horrible, exactly, but it’s not a walk in the park either,” Michael admits.

“You want to eat in bed or come to the table?” Alex asks.

“I should probably come to the table,” Michael says, basing his choice on the advice of the doctor, not his protesting body. 

“Do you need me to--”

“Nah, I got it,” Michael says, “It just takes me a minute.”

Alex places the plate at the table. While Michael gets his arm in its sling, Alex pours a glass of water to go with the eggs, even plopping in a few ice cubes. Once Michael makes the short but nevertheless strenuous journey to the table, Alex offers the pill and Michael takes it gratefully. Alex reaches in his pockets to pull out three travel-sized bottles of acetone.

“Picked these up for you, too,” he says, lining them up on the table. “And  _ tell me this time _ when you run out? It’s not like anybody’s going to question why I need it,” he points out, waving his black-lacquered fingernails at Michael.

“Thanks,” Michael replies, trying not to seem too eager as he reaches immediately to unscrew the cap of the nearest bottle and takes a couple of grateful gulps. 

“So, um, I should get back up to the house before Dad gets suspicious of anything,” Alex says. “Flint must’ve told him his deluded reasoning for all this because Dad--uh--had a  _ talk  _ with me earlier--about you.”

Michael’s spirits, which were lifting a bit with Alex’s company and a new round of pain medicine, plummet at the words. There’s trepidation in Alex’s words, like he isn’t sure how Michael will take the news. 

“If you want to just steer clear of me, I won’t hold it against you, really,” Michael says, offering Alex a way out if he wants it. “I mean it. I’d understand.”

“Hell, no,” Alex replies without hesitation, and Michael’s mood soars again. “That’s not what I want. I just wanted to be upfront with you about it. It means we really are gonna have to worry about selling a cover story. Dad seems to think this all could’ve been avoided if I just “helped” them “keep you in line,” Alex mutters, eyes dark with anger. “God,  _ fuck  _ them; they’re just  _ terrible  _ fucking people, and I--we shouldn’t have to play games like this but--well--it’s just the way life is with them--unless you don’t want to risk it or deal with it--which is fine, by the way, call quits now or anytime you want, I woudn’t hold it against you either, but--

“But what?” Michael prompts when Alex pauses.

“But you were right, what you said last night about them already having too many wins. They do. They control everything and they get what they want because they just  _ take  _ everything and--and fuck if I’m going to let them take the friendship that makes this hellhole bearable without a fight. It’s time  _ we  _ get to have a win--even if it has to be a secret one.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Michael says with a smile. “You got a plan for how to deal with them?”

“Lucky for us I’m a theatre geek,” Alex replies, “so once you’re really on your feet again--and  _ only _ if you want to--maybe we’ll have a crash course in stage fighting? That’s just an idea, we’ve got time to come up with other stuff.”

“That sounds totally doable,” Michael agrees, “Plus, I get plenty of random bruises and scrapes just working, too. I can just start blaming them on you.”

“But don’t be careless or hurt yourself on purpose just to try to sell the story,” Alex counters, brow furrowing. 

Michael rolls his eyes, and huffs. “Pretty sure I’d rather give myself a minor black eye than go another round like that with your brother.”

“He won’t hurt you like that again,” Alex replies, face darkening again. “Dad, well...you know--and--and I’ll keep a better eye, too.”

“That’s not something you can promise,” Michael says wryly. 

Alex seems at a loss for words, before finally admitting. “No, I guess I can’t. I can try though.”

“I’m okay, Alex,” Michael says. “ _ Really _ . And it’s  _ not  _ your fault or your responsibility to clean up their messes. Don’t be so tough on yourself. We’ll just get our cover story squared away and let my ribs knit back together, and it’ll be the usual manageable stuff, you’ll see. But, in the meantime, you really should go.”

“I’ll be back later,” Alex promises, “once they’re asleep, just to check in again, in case you need anything.”

“Bring a new book?” Michael requests. 

“Yeah, sure thing. Take care of yourself in the meantime, okay? Seriously.”

“Scrambled eggs, acetone, a haul of snacks from my sister, and a TV,” Michael lists off. “I’m in for the Guerin version of a wellness retreat, dude. Don’t worry about me.”  
Alex shows himself out, and Michael polishes off the scrambled eggs even though they’re only lukewarm at this point. He takes another several sips of acetone now that Alex isn’t here to judge--or worry more like. He wonders whether he shouldn’t just call this off. He’s asking Alex to take a big risk, but Alex seems to think it’s all worth it; God knows Michael thinks it is. 

_ If we can just build up a cover story to convince his family… _

It’s not an outlandish idea. After all, Michael’s been constructing convincing cover stories since he was seven...

* * *

Michael  _ finally _ gets cleared for light-duty work after weeks of nearly losing his mind with cabin fever--unhelped by of Max and Isobel calling  _ all the goddamn time _ and helped even less by the warden ruling over his recovery with a terrifyingly close eye-- conducting random “inspections” of Michael’s physical therapy and scrutinizing Michael’s motion against the diagrams provided to him at each follow-up clinic appointment--as if any failure in Michael’s recovery will be a stain on the Manes reputation for having a weakling AWP. He doesn’t for a moment delude himself into thinking Jesse Manes spares a thought for him beyond the effect he could have on the family’s reputation and legacy. But Michael doesn’t give a shit whether the warden cares about him.

All that really matters is that Alex does.

Alex has deemed this friendship worthy of risking the wrath of his family. He’s made sure Michael had whatever he needed while he’s recovered. He hasn’t commented on the rate Michael goes through the acetone--in fact, regularly brings new bottles “just in case” so Michael doesn’t have to admit when he’s going through faster than he meant. He’s come by as often as he can, to chat and watch reruns and keep Michael sane. Now, facing the next step that’s going to be infinitely more complicated than the past weeks of sneaking out his window to come visit, instead of bowing out, Alex is determined to lay the groundwork for it all to continue.

“Okay, nerd, lay it on me,” Michael says when Alex arrives at the bunkhouse late that night. “What’s the plan? Because you were  _ thinking _ so goddamn loud on the drive home from the clinic I could practically hear it.”

“I hate that we’re even having this conversation,” Alex says with a frown as he comes to take his usual place on the bed beside Michael’s. 

“Life’s a bitch,” Michael replies with a flippant shrug, “just--think of it as an extended acting class assignment. Do they have competitions for that stuff? ‘Cause you’re about to be the best, or we’re  _ both  _ gonna get our asses handed to us.”

“Yeah, about that...” Alex says in a tone that’s blatantly hedging his bets. 

“What?” Michael asks, frowning in annoyance. 

“Just--we both know--at least, I hope you know--I couldn’t-- _ wouldn’t _ \--ever actually hit you, and, well, even if I teach you the technical moves, I’m just--not sure I can actually pull it off. Not with Dad and Flint. They  _ know  _ me.”

“They might  _ think  _ they know you, Alex, but they don’t know a goddamn thing about you,” Michael counters vehemently, moving from where he’s leaned against the headboard to sit up and face Alex instead. “Not really.”

“They know I’m a fucking  _ coward _ .”

“Bullshit! You’re not a--”

“Flint almost  _ killed  _ you!” Alex retorts. “And here I am just teaching you how to play along instead of turning him in, even though I know good and well that it’s not the first time he’s--” Alex’s eyes go wide, like he said more than he meant to, and he rises to his feet and walks away toward the kitchen--gathering himself?--before he adjusts the train of conversation, “and my dad’s been like this for as long as I can remember--just a bully with too much power who manipulates or cuts down anybody he can just for the hell of it.” Alex occupies himself with getting a glass of water, like this isn’t a conversation he can face Michael for, and Michael’s heart aches at the guilt-ridden expression on Alex’s face. “But I never say anything; I never  _ do  _ anything, I’m just--” he looks heartwrnchingly defeated as he shrugs and drops down to sit on the edge of the spare bunk again, free hand running down his face before finally declaring, “I really  _ am _ just a coward, Guerin.”

“Doing whatever it takes to live through all this, doesn’t make you a coward,” Michael replies, coming to sit on the bunk beside him. “It makes you a survivor--makes  _ us  _ survivors. ‘Cause if you’re a coward, then so am I, by that logic. And if you’re callin’ me a coward, then I might just have to throw a  _ real  _ punch at you,” Michael concludes with a grin, waving loose fists like a cartoon boxer. 

Alex rolls his eyes, but it gets a huff of exasperation out of him--instead of that kicked puppy look--so Michael counts it a success. 

“Look, I agree with you that if you just started throwing punches, being an asshole for no reason, mimicking them  _ too  _ well, then they’d probably call the bluff,” Michael reasons, “but if you just start yelling at me for things you pretend I screwed up and maybe shoved me around, some--it’d still get the point across, without being like them,” he concludes with a shrug. “And little stuff like that will be easier to fake anyway because it wouldn’t leave much of a mark. You throw a fake punch, I gotta get a fake shiner and all that crap.” When Alex doesn’t immediately reply, Michael prods, “come on; it’s a solid plan.”

“I hate even pretending this, but I hate the thought of what Dad or Flint might do if they really think we’re friends.”

“We don’t have to make a  _ big _ production of it,” Michael says, “but I don’t see any other way around it, Alex. Do you?”

“No, but I still hate it.”

Michael shrugs. “It is what it is.”

_ And I’d do a hell of a lot more to keep from losing this friendship.  _

In the end they settle on--and actually practice--just a few basics. Things that Alex feels would be enough in line with his demeanor to be believable: pretending to yank Michael around by the hair; fake kicks; shoves that barely make contact and falling in a way that doesn’t hurt too much. Alex looks absolutely miserable the entire time, and Michael struggles to think of something to lift his spirits back up after this. After all, it would be a lot easier on Alex to either keep his distance or just  _ actually  _ rough Michael up every now and then. Instead he’s investing all this time so they can stay friends,  _ worrying  _ about  _ Michael  _ every minute they plan. And more than anything they’ve done, it makes Michael feel-- _ appreciated  _ in a way he never really has before, like his presence is significant, something that shouldn’t--can’t?--be given up lightly. 

He wonders a little bitterly if this is how Max and Isobel feel all the time, if this is why they’re so fiercely loyal to the Evans family.

“You looked stressed as hell,” Michael comments. “We could--I dunno--watch reruns or something?” he suggests, waving to the television set. 

“Yeah, I can stay a little longer,” Alex says, smiling, as he comes to join Michael on the sofa. Some of the worry lines leave his face as they laugh through a few episodes of the Beverly Hillbillies, and what Michael wouldn’t give to find a way to have Alex so carefree all the time. He’s not naive enough to think that day will come--or that if it does, Michael will be the cause of it--but in the meantime he’ll settle for a few hours here and there when they can just  _ be. _

  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

Their plan of playacting abuse--as fucked up as it may be--is much easier and more effective than Micheal really expected. Because Alex is wrestling with the role he has to play, Michael makes the suggestion for their first “altercation.” Reasoning that, given the warden’s comment that Alex should be helping them keep Michael in line, it would be a plausible first step to have Alex establish the same bullshit about being addressed with respect that the warden did, especially since Flint had established it, too. 

So when the warden was in the barn checking up on Michael on his second morning back to light-duty work, Alex came in to instruct Michael to have Whiskey ready for a ride when he got home.  _ What the hell kind of answer is “yeah, sure” Guerin?  _ Alex had demanded, not laying a hand on Michael, but striding across the tack room to get into Michael’s space--earning a surprised smile from his father.  _ I might not have a professional title yet, but I’m still a human. I’m your superior, and it’s time you start addressing me that way. With some respect. It’s “Yes, Alex” and “No, Alex,” from here on out, got it? _

It had gone exactly the way they’d wanted. The warden had bought it hook line and sinker. And he’s bought all the other slight run-ins he’s seen in the weeks since, which is great, really. Whatever role they’ve got Alex playing at the school play, he’s overqualified if these at-home performances are any indicator. Of course, the stakes are a lot higher here than they are at school, and it’s beyond Michael’s comprehension that Alex is willing to take on all this trouble for the sake of this friendship. Michael should be grateful. He  _ is  _ grateful. 

Except that Michael keeps replaying the trysts in his head sometimes, in excruciatingly vivid detail. And overall, it’s kind of unsettling just how  _ good  _ Alex is at exuding the same dark energy as the rest of his family. 

_ It’s all worth it,  _ Michael tries to remind himself.  _ We’re okay. It’s all fine. It’s just an act. I should be thanking God we’re so good at it.  _

He just can’t stop worrying that one day Alex might decide he’s tired of just pretending.

* * *

“Guerin!” the tone of Alex’s voice--sharp and angry as it cuts through the relative silence of the stable--gives Michael the warning that either the warden or Flint must be around. Michael takes a deep breath, readying his poker face, and steps out of the tack room into the main aisle.

“Yes, Alex?” he says, keeping his eyes downcast.

“What part of ‘have Whiskey and Tango ready when I get home this afternoon’ wasn’t clear?”  __ he demands, and Michael catches the warden in his peripheral vision--can tell just from his stance that the warden is probably smiling.  __

Alex  _ didn’t  _ ask Michael to have the horses ready. He  _ had  _ mentioned it might be nice to go riding, though, and presumably the warden has gotten in the way of that plan--maybe seeing Alex on the way to the barn? Checking up that he’s putting Michael to work with the horses and not just falling back to more friendly rides like they used to. 

_ Did the warden invite himself to go out with Alex? Or was it Alex’s idea to go out with his dad instead of me? _

Michael pulls himself away from his questions. The details don’t matter; the result is the same regardless of how it happened: he’s not going riding with Alex today, and they’ve got a part to play for the warden. 

“I--just--got behind, I guess,” Michael stammers. “Time got away, and I--”

“Well, get your ass in gear then,” Alex commands, as he shoves Michael back toward the tack room. Michael makes what he hopes is a pretty good show of sprawling on the floor. Alex reaches for his hair, waiting for Michael to get his hands up overtop to take control of the motion, giving the slight squeeze to confirm for Alex he’s ready for the move. Michael doesn’t both to suppress a shudder as his eyes meet Alex’s cold, unwavering contemptuous gaze. He pretends to yank Michael’s hair to get Michael back upright. Michael grimaces, playing his part as well, and says, “Yeah-- _ yes _ , Alex. It’ll just take a couple minutes. Sorry. I’ll get the horses together.”

“Fine,” Alex says, releasing his hold on Michael.

Alex leaves him to walk back down the aisle to where his father waits. Michael sighs as he hurries to get Whiskey and Tango saddled up, trying and failing not to replay Alex’s harsh voice in his head as he does.

_ He doesn’t mean any of it. It’s an act. I can’t be a baby about it or it won’t work. It’s all just for show. It’s all fine,  _ Michael reminds himself. 

* * *

“Hey, Guerin?” Alex calls softly as he wraps a knock on the bunkhouse door.

Michael sighs, rising up from where he’d been sitting on the edge of the sofa, setting the guitar to the side as he calls back, “Yeah, Alex, it’s open.”  _ Not that I have any other option. Even if I did want to keep you out.  _

“Hey,” Alex says as he shuts the door behind him. “I--uh--brought burritos,” he says, holding up two wrapped in foil. “Thought maybe we could watch TV and just hang out? Since we didn’t get to ride earlier ?”

Michael rolls his eyes, spotting the effort for what it is. “You don’t have to come out here and try to apologize or make it up to me when we ‘fight’,” he quotes sarcastically. 

“I know I don’t  _ have  _ to,” Alex says, “but I want to, and it’s… well, I think it’s important.”

“ _ Important? _ ” Michael repeats skeptically. “To eat burritos and watch Gilligan’s Island?”

“No, to ya know. Make it a routine to follow up negative interactions of stage fighting with good interactions,” he says. “Is it okay if I grab a couple plates to nuke these?” he asks, waving the burritos.

“Sure, but I can--”

“Nah, I got it,” he says quickly, “you sit. I didn’t mean to interrupt you playing. It’ll just take a sec.”

“Okay…”

Michael picks up the guitar, studies Alex as he works in the kitchenette, padding around in his sock feet, artfully torn jeans, and a black t-shirt emblazoned with the ugliest ghostly green “Panic! At the Disco.” logo intermixed with purposeful bleach stains. Michael tries and fails to figure out what’s going on, exactly, and why there’s this new layer of-- _ something _ \--concern maybe? Coddling? Pity? That has Alex flustered and fussing around in the kitchen, even bothering to make sure he gets forks and knives and  _ napkins  _ before bringing Michael over his plate. 

“Is it okay if I sit?” he wonders, with a nod to the empty space on the sofa beside Michael.

“Yeah,” Michael says, still studying Alex as he settles into the lumpy cushion. 

They sit in silence for a few minutes, and Michael’s grateful to have the task of taking his first few bites of the cheesy beef and rice burrito to occupy himself. He keeps waiting for Alex to say something, but the silence stretches on. Michael wouldn’t  _ mind  _ exactly, except that Alex  _ also  _ isn’t relaxing at all.

“Okay, what the hell is up with you?” Michael asks, unable to keep the question bottled up any longer, and perturbed he can’t figure out the answer on his own. 

Alex looks up from his half-eaten burrito like a deer caught in headlights. “Nothing’s up. I’m fine,” he replies. 

“No,  _ I’m  _ fine,” Michael counters, “You’re--being weird,” Micheal says. “What’s up?”

“Nothing’s up,” Alex persists. 

“Because of today?” Michael assumes. “What? You feel bad? Or am I just too damn good of an actor, and you thought you really hurt me or something?” he tries to tease with the last comment, but it falls flat.

“Guerin, it’s nothing.”

“Is  _ is  _ something. Just tell me,” Michael says, realizing he’s gesticulating with the burrito in his hand and letting the rice kind of fly everywhere, so he sets his plate down on the small space of couch between them. 

“I told you already,” Alex replies. “It’s important to follow up stage fighting stuff with good stuff.”

He emphasizes his point with another bite, as though it will convince Michael to follow suit.

“So what, you’re just concentrating too hard on making sure you  _ microwave  _ and  _ serve _ the burrito _ perfectly? _ ” Michael scoffs. “It’s not that much pressure.”

“It’s  _ important _ !”

“I’m not  _ that  _ fragile, Alex, Jesus.”

“Nobody said you were fragile,” he retorts. 

“You don’t have to  _ say _ it. Actions speak louder than words, cliche as it is to say, and you’re out here trying to--what? Make it up to me?” Michael guesses. “Alex, I don’t care if--”

“Well,  _ I  _ care,” Alex retorts, “and if we’re gonna do this then, we’re gonna do it right, so excuse the hell out of me if I’m trying to go by the book on--”

“The  _ book _ ?” Michael interjects, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure there’s a book on how to treat your Antaran stable hand who’s stage fighting to keep up a cover for your asshole family.”

“No, but there is--” Alex clips off the sentence abruptly, eyes going just a bit wide, like he’s realizing that he said too much, and he quickly attempts to deflect by taking another bite.

“There is  _ what _ ?” Michael prods, annoyance giving way to curiosity. “A book on something  _ else _ ? God, don’t tell me you read something about this in that cheesey AWP pamphlet they give people.”

“No, I--it’s not--well--less of a book or anything and more general research, but--it’s not important where I read it.”

“Just important that you feed me burritos,” Michael says with a grin as he takes a bite, wondering why Alex is starting to blush and get more than a little flustered. 

“It doesn’t have to be,” Alex says, giving up on eating apparently and setting his plate down next to Michael’s. “I mean we can do something else to hang out if you want to,” Alex offers, looking miserable.

“What in the  _ world  _ are you so worked up for? Just  _ tell  _ me. We don’t have to have secrets, remember? It’s the whole point of staying friends,” Michael says, because whatever is going on, Alex clearly is trying to be helpful and kind.

“It’s dumb.”

“I thought it was  _ important _ .” Michael picks up his burrito and uses it to gesture that Alex should continue before helping himself to a bite. 

“Well, it is, but  _ you’re  _ going to think it’s dumb,” Alex explains. “I just didn’t know how else to make sure we didn’t fuck everything up, because, you’re right, there’s  _ not  _ a book on navigating a friendship where you have to pretend to beat up your friend in front of your family. And I just--wanted to make sure it wasn’t going to make things worse for either one of us in the long run, keeping up this façade.”

“So no book,” Michael repeats. “You turned to the internet?” he supposes.

Alex is looking literally anywhere else in the room as he nods. “And--uh--well, people have all kinds of relationship dynamics, ya know, so as long as you take care of each other, even if--if--” He is now turning a spectacular shade of pink as his blush expands from his cheeks to his entire face. “Well, do you--have you heard of the kind of relationships they call BDSM?”

The guffaw of laughter that rips out of Michael’s chest is almost painful in its intensity. Alex looks a little hurt, so Michael tries to control it.

“I know, okay?!” Alex says defensively. “It’s ridiculous, but I didn’t--I just wanted to make sure--I-- _ we _ —weren’t on route to make a bad situation even worse and—”

“No, no, you don’t have to convince me. It makes total sense,” Michael says weakly between laughs. “I’m not laughing at the idea,” he goes on. “Just picturing you wading through all the results that must have come up when you googled  _ that. _ ” He’s managed to quell his laughter to just a painfully wide grin. “I bet you even had that serious-ass face you get when you’re concentrating on your homework. Oh, God,  _ did you take notes?  _ Tell me you took notes.”

Alex frowns, and gives Michael an angry glare, but it has all the threat of an angry kitten. “You’re an asshole,” he informs with a huff. He moves to rise from the couch, and Michael reaches for his arm to stop him. 

“Don’t,” he requests, “just sit back down, okay? You’re right; I’m being an asshole. It just caught me off-guard, but it’s really nice of you to take so much time with it.” 

Alex’s anger wanes at the statement, and he sits back on the couch, uncrossing his arms to rub nervously at the back of his neck as he tries to explain again. “I just--I already felt like it was selfish and not fair to let you play along with this plan,” he says. “I wanted to make sure that whatever effect the stage fighting had--it wasn’t a bad enough effect to make it all not worth the effort. The whole point of having friends is to have something to help with the shitty days--not something that just fucks you up even worse than just being left alone would.”

“You’re a really great friend, Alex,” Michael says. “I mean, I’m really okay, but I’m also never gonna say no to platonic-aftercare with cheap tex mex and old tv reruns so…” he claps a hand on Alex’s shoulder, resisting the urge to massage at the taut muscles he can feel through Alex’s shirt. “If it’s something you think will be good to make a habit of, I trust your plan on it. Thanks for—ya know—looking into it or whatever.” 

  
  


* * *

The SOS wakes Michael from a dead sleep--Isobel telepathically screaming her brothers’ names--and the phone on the wall rings not a second later.

“Max?” Michael assumes. 

“You heard her, too?”

“What the hell?  _ Where  _ the hell? All I saw was blackness.”

Before the conversation can go any farther Isobel is there again. 

_ I’m sorry; I’m sorry. I don’t know where I am. I can’t see anything. I’m--I’m in the desert somewhere. I must’ve walked? My feet are bloody. I think I twisted my ankle and maybe--maybe I hit my head. I’m not sure. I’m--I’m in my pajamas--just--here. And I don’t have the cellphone Noah got me so I can’t pretend it’s just a regular call. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what happened.  _

Michael gets a brief flash of the poorly-lit desert. There’s barely any moonlight tonight, but it’s just enough to catch the outline of a windmill. 

“I know where she is,” Max says into the phone. “I’m on my way, but, Michael, you could get there half an hour before I’ll be able to.”

“Okay, tell me where to go.”

Michael hurries to find clothes, repeating the directions Max gave him to be sure he doesn’t forget and to keep his mind from straying too far with worry. He dons the first shirt he grabs from his dresser and pulls on the jeans he discarded on the floor last night. He goes to the cabinet in search of some acetone and a flashlight, and stows them in the pocket of the jacket he throws on before stepping into his boots and rushing out into the night. 

Following Max’s directions—and wishing desperately that he could’ve risked taking a horse instead of hurrying as best he can on foot—Michael finds Isobel about fifteen minutes later. She’s huddled at the base of the windmill she showed him, shivering with nothing but a thin nightgown to protect her from the night’s chill. Michael takes off his jacket and drapes it over her shoulders, dropping down beside her in the dirt and wrapping her in a hug--trying and failing to tamp down the memories of their childhood that make this all too familiar. He reaches into the pocket of the jacket for the half-full bottle of acetone he brought with him, offering it to her. She takes three or four eager gulps, before screwing the cap back on and shoving it back in the jacket pocket, leaning into Michael’s embrace. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs into his shoulder.

“You won’t be thanking me once you’ve had the chance to realize you’re gonna smell like horses now,” he teases. 

“No,” she replies, refusing to join him in joking. “I’m serious. I’m sure the warden will chew your ass out if he realizes you just up and left in the middle of the night, and--and--”

“Hey, hey, it’s no big deal. I wouldn’t have come if it was,” he lies. “I could’ve left it all to Saint Max. He’s on his way, too.”

“I knew he would be; we still always have a plan.”

“Why didn’t y’all tell me you were still having blackouts?” Michael asks. “How long has this been happening?”

“It’s not very often,” she replies, deflecting, “and once we convinced them to let us have cell phones, it made it a lot easier. Humans have blackouts, too, and they sleepwalk; it doesn’t flag anything. They even--sets of multiples--have some intuitive properties. We try not to lean too heavily on it, but so far--it’s been enough to help us sweep the incidents we can’t hide under the rug.”

“I’m gonna give you hell for not telling me what was going on with you,” Michael informs, like he’s got any room at all to be a moral authority on sharing with siblings. “But not while you’re shivering in the middle of the desert.”

“We didn’t want you to worry because it’s all things we could handle.”

“Maybe so, but a heads up would have been nice,” he points out. “Let me sow seeds for a cover story or something.”

“Sorry, we just--Max wants to protect you, ya know? I know you could handle whatever we throw at you, but he likes to think he’s shielding you,” she says. “I know we’re  _ not  _ really--not as much as Max thinks anyway, but just--if he leaves you out of things, it’s because he’s trying to make up for--I dunno--life, I guess,” she says.

“Max doesn’t have anything to make up to me,” Michael replies. “He can’t control the system, no matter how much of his life he tries to pour into it.”

“Good luck convincing him of that,” Isobel replies. “Because you’re never going to.”

“He really is an insufferable martyr all the way around, huh?” Michael replies. “Saint Max.” But his tone is fond, because for all his naivety, Max really does mean well; and Michael needs there to be people like that in the world--who see the good first, always; who are convinced things will get better; who have the patience to nurture the little sparks of change that come along.

Isobel huffs a laugh, “Yeah, Saint Max, patron saint of troublesome siblings,” she replies. “We keep him on his toes.”

“Hey, he was no walk in the park growing up, either. Just because he got a handle on his powers before we did doesn’t mean he’s  _ better  _ at it. Maybe he just got the easy one.”

“No, he just practices religiously,” Isobel replies. “More than me even. He’s determined to manage it. He’s obsessed, you know Max. Never met a problem he could leave alone.” She sighs. 

“Wait a minute,  _ practicing _ ?!” Michael repeats. “After all the absolute hell yall gave me when we were kids for trying to—“

“I know; I know,” she interjects. “I only practiced enough to figure out—“ 

“To figure out what?”

She looks away guiltily, “how to only call one of you.”

“You mean to only call  _ Max, _ ” Michael rephrases. “Great, Isobel, that’s great. Let me think things had been quiet because you were getting better, but really you were just shutting me out.”

“We just didn’t want you to worry! You couldn’t help from across the country stuck wherever they’d put you. I was afraid you’d do something stupid like try to come help or—”

“God, that’s  _ rich  _ coming from you,” Michael retorts. “Years of you two talking about how we’re family no matter how separated we are and that we’re all in this together, when you’ve been isolating me even more than GRACE could! The  _ one line  _ of communication that’s supposed to stay open and honest between the three of us, and you broke our oldest rule--that we don’t risk powers  _ ever  _ unless it’s an emergency--to break our  _ second  _ oldest rule that we’re family no matter how the humans separate us and then you just cut me out of maybe our most important ability. Just fucking  _ great. _ ”

“Max isn’t the only one who wants to protect you by leaving you out of things if we can.”

“I’m not the one who needs protecting,” he mutters angrily. 

“What the fuck is  _ that  _ supposed to mean?”

He closes his eyes, breathing deep to regain some of his composure before he takes this fight in a direction they’ll all regret. He can’t afford to speak out of anger, not about this. 

“Nothing,” Michael replies tiredly. “I didn’t mean anything.”

“Sure you did,” she continues. “You meant that  _ you’ve  _ been through shit that me and Max with our  _ pampered  _ lives don’t know how to handle. Well, I’ve got news for you, Michael, it wasn’t all sunshine and roses for us either.”

“I never said it was.”

“You don’t have to  _ say  _ it. It’s in your tone and your eyes and the way you grit your teeth to keep from saying what you really think when we speak well of our placements.”

“I know your lives aren’t perfect,” Michael says. “There’s not an Antaran on this planet whose life is perfect! I’m just saying that maybe you don’t have the perspective to—”

“I’m not going to fight about this,” Isobel declares. “I’m not. First of all, you have  _ absolutely  _ no room to talk about any failure to communicate with siblings--given that half the time it pretty much takes an act of God to get you to answer the fucking phone! Second of all, I’m tired and I’m cold and my feet are cut to ribbons and I just want to go the fuck home, not get pissed at my brother over an argument that neither of us is ever going to win, so just—stop, okay? It is what it is; you were out of the loop, and now you’re right back in the middle of shit with us, so just leave it alone.”

Michael represses the urge to keep going just on principle because she’s in bossy sister mode and told him not to. But she’s still shivering, even with his jacket, face tear-streaked and pale, and she takes another long pull from the bottle of acetone Michael brought like it's the only thing grounding her.

“Okay,” Michael says finally, pulling her in close to try and warm her more. “We’ll leave it.”

They sit for a while, silence a bit tense but not outright uncomfortable. The dim light of the quarter moon barely illuminates the desert around them, which leaves little distraction beyond the sound of the wind in the brush and the distant cries of some coyotes. Their howls always make the hair on the back of Michael’s neck stand up, and he shivers as much from the sound as the wind. 

“Maybe Max isn’t the only one who feels like he has something to make up to you,” she murmurs, voice muffled into Michael’s chest. “I know you don’t blame us, but...it still seems like you should. I didn’t shut you out because I didn’t want the connection. I just wanted you to have one less thing to worry about.”

“Isobel—“

“Let’s talk about something else?” she requests. “Tell me what’s going on with you. You said at lunch last week that you were getting a new horse to work with?” 

“Two actually,” he confirms. “Yankee and Zulu.”

“And then what? Time to circle back around to the beginning of the alphabet?”

“I guess; I dunno.”

“Seems so impersonal to just give them random names, pass them along as soon as they really settle in.”

“He does it with people,” Michael retorts bitterly, “why not with his horses, too? What else d’you expect from a GRACE warden?”

“I thought you liked the job?”

“I do like the job,” he replies, “but I’d be an idiot to forget who it is I’m working for and what he represents for people like us.”

“Bitterness isn’t going to solve any problems.”

“Didn’t say it would.”

“Just--tell me about the horses? What’re they like? What’re you training them for?”

He obliges, going on and on about his day-to-day life as they wait for Max to get there—which horses are his favorite and why. What he thinks of the two new arrivals. Max arrives on foot with a backpack too well stocked for this to be as rare as Isobel seems to want Michael to believe. Max heals Isobel’s feet for her, pulls shoes and sweatpants and a t-shirt from the pack and wraps a blanket around her shoulders. Michael notes the easy rhythm between Max and Isobel, upset to see that they really have had a chance to get used to this “Max to the Rescue” desert routine. 

The idea gives Michael a whole new list of worries-- and man is he ever going to have one  _ hell  _ of a talk with Max for not telling him about this. But not now, not when the first rays of dawn are starting to peak over the horizon. 

“You should get back to the ranch, Michael,” Isobel says. “Your work day starts earliest.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Call me later? Let me know everything’s okay?”

“Of course.”

* * *

By the time he gets back to the ranch and slips back to the bunkhouse, Michael is already dreading the long workday to come on almost no sleep. He debates for a moment trying for a quick nap, but he decides it might do more harm than good; better to just down some coffee, change, and get started on the day. Easier to catch a nap once the warden’s gone than risk oversleeping this morning.

Michael opens the door and barely muffles a shout of surprise to find Alex slumped over on the kitchen table—where he apparently fell asleep? It’s a shock to be sure, but more confusing than anything. 

“Alex? What’re you doing out here?”

Alex jumps at the sound of his name, instantly awake and getting to his feet, and, before Michael can really react, Alex is hugging him, and then shoving him away halfheartedly. 

“Jesus, Guerin, you scared the hell out of me,” he mutters. “I thought--I don’t know what I thought—that you were trying to leave—or—I don’t know—but I definitely didn’t expect that you were sneaking out for a hookup.”

“Sneaking out for a hookup?” Michael asks, confused.

“I could smell her perfume on your jacket.”

_ Oh, shit.  _

“You trying to say I usually stink?” Michael teases, trying to deflect.

“Who is she?” Alex wonders, persistent, and Michael  _ must _ be imagining the sadness in his voice. Why would Alex care who Michael sleeps with?

“Is she human? Whoever you’re sleeping with?” Alex asks with a frown. 

“Wow, I never figured you for the type to be judgmental about a guy’s sex life, even if it is inter-species,” Michael says, hurt more than he’d care to admit at the implications in Alex’s tone. “I guess you’re a little more of a Manes man than I thought. So much for your progress on seeing through all the bullshit GRACE feeds the world. You actually believe all the things they say to warn humans away from--”

“That’s not what I meant!” Alex stammers, apparently shocked by Michael’s direct challenge to his reaction. He reaches toward Michael, as if maybe he’s going to lay a hand on his shoulder, but Michael steps back, on the defensive now. 

“No?” Michael says “Sure sounded like it. Why else would you care what  _ species  _ she is? Want to make sure I’m not getting too uppity and thinking I could ever deserve a  _ human’s  _ affection? Well—”

“No, Guerin, stop. That’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m just asking—the reason it matters isn’t because I care about any of that bullshit. You know me better than that—at least I hope you do. I just asked because I wanted to be sure you—you have a choice, right? Whoever it is—whichever species they are, I don’t care, as long as you  _ want  _ to be with them.”

Michael is shocked to silence for a moment at the earnestness of the words, the unmistakable distress and concern on Alex’s face—apparently at the prospect of Michael being forced into something he doesn’t want.

“As long as it’s  _ your  _ choice,” Alex goes on, still not breaking eye contact, “As long as some human isn’t--taking advantage of the situation, whatever the situation is—then that’s fine and I’m  _ not  _ the guy trying to judge you for your choices. You  _ deserve  _ to be with whoever you choose to be with--human, Antaran, girl, guy, whoever; it doesn’t matter to me-- just as long as you really  _ are  _ getting to choose.”

_ But what if I want to choose you, Alex?  _ Michael wonders, fighting the absurd urge to close the short space between them and kiss Alex until the worried frown leaves his face.

Michael slowly begins to realize that he’s probably jumped the gun in assuming Alex’s motives for questioning him. He really is touched by the genuine concern, but he still doesn’t have a good cover story now that he can't hide behind anger and annoyance. He changes gears to deflect with humor instead.

“Aw, shucks, you’re worried about my virtue, Alex?” he asks with a grin, but Alex doesn’t smile.

“No, we’re not joking, Guerin, not about this,” Alex says firmly, taking a slow step toward Michael; when Michael doesn’t step back this time, Alex does reach to put a hand on his shoulder, meeting Michael’s eyes as he continues, “Because my dad and Flint hurt you all the time, and you don’t tell anybody, and it’s shitty enough that I know about that situation--hell, that we’ve got a cover story to play  _ into  _ that fucked up situation--and it  _ eats me up _ that I can’t work up the courage to convince you to say anything, but this is--if somebody’s making you—” He sets his jaw and takes a deep breath before finding the words. “If they don’t have your consent, you  _ genuine  _ consent--without physical or emotional manipulation--it’s rape, even if it’s not something violent, and that’s  _ not okay  _ and it’s  _ not your fault _ . We’ll figure out a way to--”

“Alex, hey, come on,” Michael says, putting his hand overtop of Alex’s and pulling him gently by the arm to come sit back at the table, scooting the chairs closer together so they’re across from each other at the corner. “It’s nothing for you to worry about,  _ really. _ ”

“Guerin, you know my dad will lose his fucking mind if he catches you sneaking out,” Alex says, words a gut-wrenching combination of terror and concern. 

“Yeah.”

“It’d be like when Flint lost it on you--or maybe even worse. You’ve only been fully cleared for work for two weeks since that ordeal and--”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So then, do you see why I figure either you must love whoever you’re sneaking out to see a hell of a lot--in which case they should understand when you tell them that it’s not worth the risk,” he goes on, “or either you’re risking it because you don’t have a choice. And that’s  _ not okay, _ Guerin. I know you think they won’t believe an Antaran over a human, and I know I’ve been a coward about things with Dad and Flint, but, I’d back you up on this--whatever it is--—if you needed somebody on your side--tell me what happened--as much or as little as you want--but just--enough so that I know what to tell them when we makes statements or---”

“Alex, Alex, it’s  _ not _ like that. I swear.  _ Why _ are you so worried about this?” Michael asks.

“I just—”

“Come on, you know I can keep a secret. You can tell me  _ anything _ .”

_ Because I have this terrible feeling that there’s a story from your life that sparks all this concern...Oh, God, Alex, what was it?What happened? _

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Alex says, closing his eyes and taking slow, deliberate breaths. He studies Alex’s face for a few moments more, trying to read what Alex won’t talk about aloud. “It’s just-- it’s just important,  _ really  _ important that you have a _ real  _ choice and that you don't think you have to-- to do something because you can’t tell. I’ll help you tell whoever we need to, and back up whatever story you need to tell and--you  _ do  _ have a choice, and options, and nobody should--”

“Alex, Alex, don’t,” Michael interjects, “I’m okay. Nobody’s making me do anything. I appreciate what you’re offering, but I’m okay. I promise you.”

He debates a few moments more, studying the worry lines on Alex’s forehead. The reassurance doesn’t seem to have done anything at all to ease Alex’s obvious misery. Then again, Alex has firsthand experience from these past few weeks of pretend abuse to know just how good Michael is at lying--and acting the part it takes to sell his lies. 

“You don’t believe me,” Michael realizes. “You think I’m lying that nothing is wrong.” 

“I  _ want  _ to believe you,” Alex replies, “I just--look me in the eye and tell me there’s not something you’re leaving out of this story about tonight,” Alex challenges. “Because I know you, and I know there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Michael sighs, defeated. Because he can’t tell Alex the whole truth, but he’s got to tell him something that will end this needless worry. Alex has enough to worry about. 

“If I tell you the truth about where I was, you swear not to tell anyone?” he asks finally.

“I swear,” Alex says somberly, clearly gearing up to help share some heavy secret. “Unless you change your mind and decide you want to--”

“It wasn’t a hookup,” Michael confesses. “It’s just Isobel’s perfume or shampoo or whatever it is that you smelled on my jacket. I had a nightmare, it felt  _ real _ , that she was hurt, and--well, I just--I had to  _ see  _ that she was okay, ya know?”

“You have a phone,” Alex reminds. “You could have just--”

“I tried calling, but it went straight to voicemail. It just ratcheted my anxiety up to a whole other level--turned out she just forgot to plug it in to charge. Everything was fine--of course it was--but that nightmare--it was--” Michael shudders just a bit for dramatic effect, trying to sell but not  _ oversell  _ the story. “It was terrible. I haven’t had nightmares like that is a long, long time--and there’s--there’s these theories, I don’t know how true they are--about antaran clusters being intuitively linked--like human twins and triplets and stuff--I just kept thinking what if she was really hurt, and I didn’t go.” Alex closes his eyes at the words, and Michael can’t quite read the expression on his face--relief? Annoyance? Anger? All three? “I know it was stupid,” Michael continues. “I don’t need a lecture about that. It’s why I wasn’t going to tell you where I went in the first place. Stop worrying about this being something a lot bigger and worse that it is. It was just a sappy, overdramatic brother thing; that’s it.”

“It’s not sappy to want to make sure she was okay,” Alex replies. “It was borderline suicidal to go check-- but I can understand why you wanted to.”

Michael huffs a laugh, “Max always says I’m ‘suicidally idiotic’... Maybe you two should start a support group.”

“Maybe so,” Alex agrees, rolling his eyes. “As stupid as it was to sneak away, I’m glad it’s not something worse.”

“Thanks for offering to, help or whatever. You didn’t have to--”

“I meant it, Guerin, really,” Alex says, “and if anything like that ever  _ does  _ happen-- _ talk  _ to me and we’ll figure it out and I’ll be the human on your side, okay? Hell, I’ll even scrounge up a couple more humans to have on your side, too, if you need. You can trust me.”

“I know,” Micheal replies. “That goes both ways, you know,” he adds. “The talking about things and the trust, I mean.”

“Yeah, I know,” Alex says with a smile, reaching to put a hand on Michael’s shoulder; he leaves it there for only a moment before letting go and rising to his feet. “ I--uh--better get back to the house. It’s late--early--whatever it is.”

“Sorry you worried and waited and--”

“I’m just glad you’re okay, Guerin,” Alex says earnestly. “I’ll see you later.”

“See ya.”

* * *

Maybe it’s just because he’s tired, but Michael’s annoyance at Isobel’s choice to learn how to reach out to just Max bothers him all morning, dogging his mind no matter what he’s doing to avoid it. The betrayal from Isobel stings badly enough, but Michael can’t believe  _ Max  _ would have shut him out like that, too--not only out of Isobel’s communication but of her health in general--and it’s his brother’s betrayal that cuts Michael deepest. They used to be in this together--protecting her. Until last night, Michael thought they still  _ were _ . How could be be so  _ stupid,  _ assuming that Isobel just magically got better when he left? But somewhere along the way Max and Isobel apparently decided that now  _ Michael  _ needed the most protecting?!

By lunchtime, Michael is starting to feel suffocated by the pent up hurt and anger that comes from brooding over things all morning. He heads to the bunkhouse, forgoing a stop in the kitchen in favor of punching Max’s number into the phone a little too forcefully. Max answers on the third ring. 

“Hey, Michael, everything’s fine,” he says. “I thought you might be busy, so I was waiting to call. Hope you weren’t worried.”

His words are generic and his tone is relatively even, the well-founded caution of always assuming lines can be tapped or recorded or otherwise overheard. 

“I  _ would _ say that I didn’t need to worry,” Michael replies, ready to pick a fight right out of the gate. “Since you and Isobel know how to get a’hold of me if you need me. Except  _ apparently _ Isobel has decided she doesn’t  _ want  _ to get in touch with me when things aren’t going well with her. And, if that wasn’t bad enough,  _ you  _ don’t seem to think I should be kept in the loop about how she’s doing either! What the  _ hell,  _ Max?! You had  _ no right  _ to keep me in the dark!”

“There was no reason to worry you, Michael. She’s fine.”

“She’s not. How long has this been going on?”

“Not long, not often.”

“Meaning what? Once a year? Once a month? Is there even a pattern? You can’t possibly know--”

“I said she is  _ fine _ .”

“And what if you’re wrong? You never could see clearly when it came to her, Max, and if--if something happens--I need to  _ know _ what’s going on! I  _ deserve  _ to know!”

“Don’t yell at me like she’s in some kind of terrible trouble with no one to watch her back!” Max retorts. “You don’t think I can handle the situation? I’ve been handling the situation for a  _ decade _ . You have no idea the lengths I have gone to to make sure that she--”

“Don’t you  _ dare  _ talk to  _ me _ about sacrifices you made for her!” Michael rages. “When I--”

“I can’t do this right now,” Max says, cutting across Michael’s rant. “I have work, so do you. I’ll call you tonight.”

“Don’t fucking bother,” Michael replies. “You want to manage it on your own? Fine! You manage it, then, Saint Max! And don’t come crying to me to risk everything when it blows up in your face, and you realize you’re going to lose her!”

He slams the phone back on the hook with so much ferocity that for a moment he worries he’s broken it. Leaning against the wall by the phone he forces himself to just breathe, he can feel his control lapsing, making the lamp and alarm clock rattle just slightly where they sit. He wipes away the tears that gather in his eyes, blinking back more that threaten to spill. 

_ Shit, shit, I’ve got to get it together.  _

_ Hell, if Max wants to handle it on his own, maybe I should just let him this time. It’s been years now--apparently they’ve been managing for a long time without me. Isobel’s right. I could use one less thing to worry about anyway. _

_ Fucking fine. _

_ It’s fine. _

And so when the phone rings hours later--after the sun is set and one of his siblings or the other is apparently finished playing their role for GRACE long enough to give Michael some thought-- Michael doesn’t pick up the phone--still too incensed to have another fruitless fight with either of them, still a little uneasy at how shaken he’s let himself get. 

_ Maybe they’re right. Maybe I can’t handle managing this. Its not like I can do anything other than alert the warden and risk everyone’s fucking lives. _

_ Fine. _

_ Let it be their problem.  _

_ That’s just fucking fine. _

But when Alex drops in later that night, just for a moment, apparently Michael isn’t doing a very good job at being “fine.”

“I was just checking in--I know we usually space out the visits more than this,” Alex says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “But I just thought I’d stop in since you seemed a little bit--” his train of thought seems to derail as his eyes meet Michael’s, and he wonders, “Is everything okay, Guerin?”

“Just can’t stop worrying about Isobel,” he replies honestly. 

“Vivid nightmares can be hard to shake,” Alex says, sounding as though he speaks from experience. 

“Yeah.”

“Anything I can do?” he wonders.

_ Stay the night _ , Michael thinks, unbidden, before he buries the wish as deep as he can manage. 

“Nah,” Michael replies, “but thanks.”

“I should get back up to the house,” Alex says, heading for the door without ever having sat down. “Talk tomorrow though? If not, definitely on Thursday night.”

“Sounds good.”

The idea occurs to Michael just as Alex moves to open the door.

“Hey, uh, actually?”

“Yeah?” Alex says, turning back to face him.

“Do you happen to have books on psychology or anything like that?” Michael wonders. 

“Hoping for some dream interpretation insight?” Alex wonders, skepticism clear in the tone of his voice. 

“Nah, I don’t buy into that bullshit,” Michael replies. “But-- I um, I just thought it’d be kind of nice to change it up from the usual stuff.”

“I took AP psych sophomore year,” Alex says. “I’ll see if I have the book--but if not I probably have my old notebook for what it's worth. I can see if I can find some other stuff.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem,” Alex replies. “G’night, Guerin.”

“Night.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the change in rating and the additional tags.

Besides time with Alex, Michael’s favorite aspect of the job is the vast amount of time he gets to spend out riding. Today he’s trying to convince Zulu, the most stubborn of the two new horses they’ve acquired, to keep a slow pace instead of the uncontrolled gallop or canter the horse would apparently rather set. The sun is high and blistering in the noon heat, and it makes for waves of heat casting illusions through the desert. On days like this Michael wishes he had a camera that could capture the splendor--or better yet that he was the kind of person with the talent and time it would take to immortalize it in paint or sketching. He has to settle for just soaking in the sight for himself, attempting to commit it to memory. 

Distracted at taking in the view, Michael doesn’t see what spooks the horse--or maybe nothing and Zulu has just decided he’s had enough of Michael today?--either way, Michael doesn’t get much warning before Zulu rears back on his hind legs. Michael tries and fails to keep his seat in the saddle, but he can’t quite manage it, landing hard in the dust and tumbling through the desert brush down an embankment. There’s a sharp, deep pain in his back as he comes to a stop, and then an even more terrifying complete  _ lack  _ of pain. His head pounds, and when he reaches up to try and assess the damage, his fingers come back covered in the warm slick of blood.

_ Oh, shit.  _

The world swims in and out of focus. He looks around but Zulu has already bolted out of sight. Michael tries to at least sit up, and he manages it for a second or two before the pounding in his head is just too overwhelming. He lays back again, taking a deep breath as he tries to psych himself up for another try, but his whole body feels just so fucking  _ heavy _ . 

_ I can do this. I can. I’m okay. _

But he’s not okay. He can’t so much as wiggle his toes, and the tickling feeling of blood dripping down the side of his face is starting to make him feel sick. The terrible reality of his predicament settles in, and, for the first time in years, Michael intentionally reaches out for his siblings’ help.

_ Max? Isobel? If you can hear any of this, I need help, and fast. I know we’ve kind of been in a fight lately but--just--please come. Please? _

If they don’t, Michael doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He wouldn’t really be able to do anything, except lie here and hope that someone finds him eventually--but if it’s someone other than Max who finds him--or if it’s Max  _ accompanied  _ by a human--if Max can’t heal whatever happened to Michael’s back before someone else sees…

_ Please. Please, you have to hear me, guys, please! _

He brushes at the tears collecting in his eyes, embarrassed even though there isn’t anyone here to see. Then the twinge of Isobel’s presence in his mind sweeps in 

_ Max is coming for you,  _ she communicates to him. _ Where are you? Are you alone? _

Michael is overwhelmed with relief, tears actually coursing his cheeks now. 

_ I'm out here alone on the ranch. Tell him to follow the dry creek bed that starts in the field behind the stable.  _

_ He’s coming as fast as he can. Just hold on, Michael. He’s coming. _

Michael tries to cling to consciousness, but he closes his eyes in hopes that the relative darkness will ease the throbbing in his head, and the next thing he knows is the sensation of hands gently framing his face. He flinches before he recognizes the voice speaking to him. 

“Michael, hey, come on, wake up,” Max’s voice urges, brushing his hair out of his face. Michael manages to open his eyes after a moment of effort.

“Max--”

“Yeah, it’s me; I’ve got you. Isobel couldn’t come, but she wanted to. She distilled out your directions for me though. You’re gonna be okay now. We’ll get you back up to the stable and---

“Max--” Michael says, managing to summon the strength to lay his hand over Max’s where it now rests on Michael’s shoulder. 

“--get you fixed up and--”

“Max--” Michael tries again, gripping harder at Max’s hand.

“--you’ll be just fine before you know it, and--”

“ _ Max _ !” Michael reaches instead for a fistful of the thick, coarse cotton of Max’s uniformed shirt, desperation apparently coming through as he uses the grip to pull himself up off the ground just a bit to get closer to Max.

“Yeah?” Max says, finally shocked to silence.

“This isn’t one we can just patch up,” Michael says gravely.

“Sure it is. That cut on your temple has stopped bleeding and you probably have a concussion but--”

“I can’t feel my legs, Max,” Michael says, voice breaking at the end because for some reason admitting it out loud makes it  _ real _ . He doesn’t even have the energy to keep his grip on Max, releasing it to lay back. The words dissolve the mask of positivity Max has been presenting, his expression instead gives way to a grim mask of realization at just how dire the situation really is.

_ Oh, God, what if he won’t even try? What if he thinks it’s too much to ask? Or what if he can’t do it? _

The terror that Max won’t or can’t help threatens to completely overwhelm, and Michael begins to ramble. “I know it’s--it’s a lot, a lot to ask, Max. I  _ know _ . And I know it’ll cost you a lot, and it risks a lot--if we were sure we could patch it up or that they could fix me at the clinic even but--bu--but-- but it--if I can’t walk--I--I’ll lose it. Stuck in the clinic--then stuck in some Antaran invalid ward--Max, you know they don’t let disabled Antarans keep AWP placements. I  _ can’t-- _ ” He barely manages to stop himself before he says “leave Alex” and instead says, “I  _ couldn’t  _ handle that.” 

“Shh,” Max soothes, squeezing Michael’s shoulder in reassurance. “It’s okay. I--I got you, Michael. You’re gonna be fine. I’ll handle it, just give me a minute,” he requests. “I gotta think--focus.”

“I’m  _ so _ sorry that I’m asking you to--”

“Accidents happen,” Max says dismissing the apology, clearly concentrating instead on what he needs to do next. “But maybe getting thrown by a horse and hurt like this  _ twice  _ in the six months you’ve been there is a sign you’re not quite as destined for the cowboy life as you think,” he adds with a small smile.

“Are you really giving me shit at a time like this?” Michael replies, but he’s grateful for the lifeline it gives--even if it’s just the vaguest illusion that things really aren’t so terrible. He gives Max a few moments more before prompting, “What’re you thinking?”

“I think I should heal your back but not the rest. You’re covered in blood, and there'll be too many questions. If you just scraped yourself up and got that cut on your temple, it’ll be okay, right?”

“You can do that? Heal just some of it?” Michael wonders, and Max nods. “Isobel wasn’t kidding when she said you’ve been practicing,” Michael realizes.

“Yeah, just the last couple of years--trying to--to figure out the threshold for what brings on the full EMP burst and what doesn’t.”

“Where does healing a spinal cord fall?” Michael wonders. “ _ Fuck  _ the sun is bright…” he mutters, throwing his arm over his face to block out the harsh light. 

“It falls high enough on the list that it’s a good thing you’re in the middle of the desert,” Max answers, grimly. “Might still fuck up some power lines around though--hopefully not.”

“I’m  _ so  _ sorry, Max,” he says again. 

“It’s okay; this was the whole point of getting you on this side of the country,” Max says as he leans to make sure his shadow covers Michael’s face. “So I could  _ actually help _ with things like this—instead of just having to react. All those SOS messages we couldn’t help with just--at least I can  _ do _ something, now.” He contemplates a few moments more before saying, “I can be more precise if I have direct contact with the wound. I’m gonna need to turn you on your side.”

“Okay.”

It’s not a graceful process; Michael tries to help as much as he can, but the movement sends stabbing pain through the upper part of his torso and the same disconcerting lack of sensation below his lower back. 

“Sorry, sorry, the pain’ll stop soon; just hold on for me, Michael, just another second,” Max says.

It begins with a sharp jolt of pain and pressure of Max pressing his hand hard against Michael’s back. It gives way to a numbness, then a warm sensation--something akin to the sun on his skin--but it spreads and intensifies, tendrils of tingling heat radiating outward from the place where Max’s hand rests. Michael tries to turn his head to see Max better, to keep a check on the toll this is taking. Max has his teeth gritted, face contorted in concentration and possibly pain? Or just the effort it’s taking? He lets out a cry that floods Michael with guilt for asking so much of his brother.

“Max--” he begins, but Max is already guiding Michael to sit up, breathing heavily as he says, “It’s done--it should be done. Try your legs.”

Michael moves his feet first, just rocking them back and forth before lifting on leg to roll his ankle. The relief of being able to do it is so intense he feels a little lightheaded for just a moment. Max smiles,  _ beams  _ actually, and murmurs, “Thank, God. I’ve never tried anything quite this--complicated,” he admits.

“Are  _ you  _ okay?” Michael asks. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Max assures, still beaming, until his eyes suddenly widen in concern and he turns his head away from Michael to vomit with alarming force. 

“Max?!” Michael says, hand on Max’s arm, gripping tight in concern. As Max continues to empty the entire contents of his stomach into the desert sands, Michael reaches for the small bag Max apparently brought with him. He riffles through it without waiting for permission or direction in hopes of finding acetone. There’s just two bottles of water, but a quick smell test confirms that they’re at least half acetone. He screws off the cap, ready to hand it to Max as soon as there’s a break in the retching. Max takes several gulps, and thankfully keeps them down. 

He smiles weakly and manages a quiet, “Thanks.”

“Pretty sure I’m the one who’s supposed to be saying that,” Micheal replies. “You saved me Max. I’d’ve been buzzard food or worse if you hadn’t--”

“You’re my brother,” Max says simply, as if no other factor matters. “Like I said. This was the whole reason we tried so hard to get you back to Roswell. I know it’s not perfect. I know it doesn’t make up for all the times we  _ weren’t  _ there, but it--”

“You don’t have  _ anything  _ to make up to me,” Michael replies. 

“Maybe not,” Max says, although Michael can tell he doesn’t really accept the absolution in the words. “But I’m glad I can-- _ we  _ can--all be here for each other now.”

“Sure you’re okay?” Michael asks. “Seems like that took a lot--”

“Oh, I’ll be good as new in an hour or so,” Max says. “Don’t worry about me.”

“You’re my brother,” Michael echos.

“Come on,” Max says, getting to his feet and offering Michael a hand up. “We should get going before anybody comes looking.”

* * *

Max walks with Michael a while before cutting off on his own path back toward town. Michael isn’t really sure what he expected to find when he returned to the stables, but it definitely wasn’t the sight of Alex saddling up Whiskey--much to the horse’s clear annoyance.

“Sure you’re up for a solo ride?” Michael wonders, and Alex wheels around to face him, face awash with relief that immediately transitions to concern at the sight of Michael.

“Guerin, oh my God! What the  _ hell  _ happened?” he says, abandoning Whiskey to come over and start looking Michael over, hands brushing Michael’s hair back to to check the cut on his forehead. “Zulu came back up to the barn without you, and I thought--”

“He threw me,” Michael said. “It’s my own fault. I got distracted. I’m fine, though, just a little banged up.”

“We should get you to the clinic.”

“Nah, it’ll be fine.”

“Michael--”

“Look, it’s already scabbing up. I didn’t lose consciousness or anything,” he lies, reluctantly pushing Alex’s hands away. “I’ll just clean it out and get some butterfly bandages on it. Good as new before you know it.”

“Michael--”

“Alex, I  _ hate  _ that place,” Michael says. “And it’ll be paperwork. The warden--”

“Hates when there’s paperwork,” Alex says, “I know, but--”

“I’m really okay. I can patch it up. No big deal.”

“Fine, but I’m helping you,” Alex insists, eyes still worriedly analyzing Michael.

“You don’t need to--”

“Guerin, you look like an extra in a zombie apocalypse movie, and, if you need stitches--”

“Okay, okay, I give up,” Michael relents. “Put Whiskey back in the paddock and meet me in the bunkhouse. You can help if you’re so determined.”

“Excuse the hell out of me for being a decent friend,” Alex says with feigned offense, taking Whiskey’s reins to lead her toward the paddock as Michael instructed. 

Michael makes his way back to the bunkhouse, tossing the blood-stained flannel to the floor without much thought and heading to the bathroom to start cleaning himself up. He really needs a shower to wash all the blood out of his hair and the sand and dust from everywhere else, but he still has work to do, so he’ll just have to shower again. He settles for a damp rag to get the worst of the dried blood from around the cut and where it dripped down his neck, and Alex arrives just as he’s getting started. 

“You’re  _ sure _ you don’t need the clinic?” Alex asks, eyes scanning over Michael’s torso. Michael wills himself not to blush under Alex’s gaze.

_ He’s making sure you’re not bleeding internally. It’s nothing more than that. Get over yourself, Guerin,  _ he chastises mentally.

“It only looks so bad because I haven’t cleaned it up yet,” Michael says. “It’ll be fine once we get that taken care of.” 

“Here, let me,” Alex offers, and Michael isn’t too proud to relinquish the task. “Sit,” Alex tells him with a gesture to the closed toilet, and Michael obliges. 

“Thanks,” Michael says as Alex dabs gently at the cut. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” Alex replies. “Because there’s dirt in here, it needs cleaning and it’s gonna hurt like a bitch.”

“Ah, fuck,” Michael mutters, though he expected as much.

“Where’s your acetone?” 

“I’m out,” Michael replies. 

“God _ damnit,  _ I  _ told  _ you to--” but Alex apparently spots the impish grin on Michael’s face and stops chastising. “You’re kidding around with me? While I’m trying to patch up your skull? Really, Guerin?”

“You’re even worse than my brother; had to get that frown off your face before it stuck that way,” Michael replies with a shrug. 

“Where’s your acetone?” Alex repeats. “You’re gonna want it.”

“At the bottom of that giant bag of rice in the cabinet by the microwave,” Michael replies. 

“Be right back.”

Alex was right, of course; cleaning out the did hurt like a bitch--and the two stitches Alex declared it needed were no walk in the park either. Still, compared to what the  _ real  _ damage was, it’s easy to count himself lucky. 

“You should get back up to the house before they get home,” Michael tells Alex. “You’ll blow our cover for sure if they catch you taking better care of this than the clinic would.”

Alex frowns. “You might have a concussion. You shouldn’t be on your own, and you definitely shouldn’t fall asleep yet.”

“I’m not gonna fall asleep. I’m going down to the stables.”

“You can’t  _ go back to work _ !”

“I’ll take it easy,” Micheal says. “Just the minimum for what the horses need. I promise. It’s all manageable, and it’ll keep me awake. Come check on me in awhile if you want, but I’ll really be fine.” 

He moves past Alex and back out into the main room to search for a new shirt. He swears he keeps catching Alex’s eyes lingering, but it must be his imagination--or maybe just Alex wondering when the hell Michael will get enough modesty to clothe himself. As he dons the first shirt he grabs from the drawer, Michael realizes Alex was probably cataloging his scars--readying for the next time he thinks it’ll do Michael some good to share and care and all that bonding shit. 

“I don’t like that plan but I can’t really stop you,” Alex says with a sigh. 

“Speaking of things you don’t like,” Michael adds. “I’m gonna guess the warden notices this, so we might as well use it to our advantage, right? Gonna tell him you shoved me, so if he mentions it, go with it.”

“I  _ hate  _ this.”

“It is what it is; we’ve been over this.”

“I still hate it,” Alex says. “God, when he sees it needed stitches he’s probably gonna just clap a hand on my shoulder and tell me how proud he is that I’m finally acting like a “Manes man,” he adds bitterly. “Makes me want to fucking puke.”

“Less than a year before you’re old enough to get the hell away from him,” Michael reminds. “Just get by until then.”

“And what? I’m supposed to just leave you here to deal with them on your own?” Alex replies. 

The way Alex’s tone so clearly conveys that leaving Michael behind is not an option he’ll entertain makes Michael’s stomach flip as his pulse races just a bit--as it does every time Alex catches him off guard with a reminder that this is a real friendship, not just something Alex does out of pity. 

“We’ll figure something out,” Michael replies. “But not tonight.”

Alex leaves to go back to the house with a promise of checking in later, and Michael heads for the barn to do enough to get by until the morning. When Warden Manes comes in from work and notices the bandage and asks what happened, Michael lets his eyes shift nervously before mumbling, “nothing.” Warden Manes grips his chin hard, forcing Michael to look him in the face. 

“Don’t lie to me, Guerin,” he growls. “Flint’s been with me all day, so I know it wasn’t him. What have you been up to?”

“I haven’t b-been up to anything; I swear. Alex just--”

“ _ Alex _ ?” Warden Manes repeats, apparently doubtful of Alex’s ability to escalate to this level.

“I don’t think he really meant to do  _ that _ much, all I did was--was forget he said he wanted to try taking X-ray out instead of Whiskey, but, when he shoved me, I tripped and--”

“Did you lose consciousness?” the warden asks, apparently buying Michael’s account of things. 

“No, sir.”

“Does it need stitches?”

“Yes, sir, but just two. I did it already.”

He nods his approval. 

“Good. Don’t let it get infected, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Be more careful in the future,” he advises as he turns to leave. “Can’t have a ranch hand who stumbles over his own feet and injures himself.”

  
  


* * *

Despite studying his ass off--with Michael’s help actually--Alex still barely scrapes by on his statistics midterm. He tells Michael the bad news after school and suggests Michael steer clear of the warden’s wrath, but Michael doesn’t. He times his ride with Zulu to arrive back at the stable about the time the warden should be returning from work. When the sound of his arrival doesn’t immediately draw the warden out of the stall with Alex, who’s babbling excuses and assurances that he’s going to bring the grade up before the semester ends, Michael not-so-accidentally side swipes the table in the tack room with the staddle, knocking everything to the floor with a series of clanks and clatters. It draws the warden’s attention, as planned, and diverts some of his wrath, ending with Alex’s now-familiar reminder of paperwork. 

Later, just as Michael polishes off the last few sips of acetone in the most recent bottle from Alex, there’s a knock at his door.

“Can I come in?” Alex’s voice asks quietly. 

“Sure,” Michael calls back from his place on the couch. 

“Thought you might want this?” Alex says, crossing the room to offer a small metal flask, and Michael quirks an eyebrow.

“What is it?”

“Jack,” Alex replies. “I keep a stash.” Michael gestures for Alex to have a seat, and Alex joins him on the sofa. “I’m out of acetone,” Alex goes on, “and I know it’s been a little while since I got you some. Thought you might be out. I’ll get some more soon, but in the meantime I figured we could share.”

“I have a couple sips of acetone left, but I never turn down whiskey,” Michael says, fingers brushing against Alex’s as he takes the flask. 

He drinks deep, relishing the smooth burn as it flows down his throat. The silence grows for a moment or two, heavier than usual and Michael supposes it’s just because of the warden’s reaction to Alex’s grades. He’s about to offer some generic encouragement about how they’ll study more for the next test to get his grade up, but Alex breaks the quiet first. 

“Guerin, why do you keep doing this?” he asks, voice quiet and unsure as he looks over at Michael with a melancholy gaze full of an intensity that makes Michael’s heart skip a beat. 

“Doing what?” Michael asks, feigning ignorance as he looks away, searching for a distraction and settling on taking another sip from the flask and offering it to Alex. 

“Don’t try to bullshit me,” Alex replies, crossing his arms rather than take the flask from Michael. “You know  _ exactly _ what I’m talking about. When he’s in a mood, or drinking, or  _ both  _ you always manage to do something that gets his attention on you instead of--instead of on me. Even when I tried to give you a heads up, like tonight. You go and make enough of a racket to distract him, knowing it means you’re gonna catch hell from him.”

_ Because, for me, it’s worse to watch him hurt you than it is to let him hurt me instead. _

Michael just shrugs because he can’t deny the truth in Alex’s assessment of his actions, and he isn’t sure what else to say. 

“I’m serious,” Alex persists. “ _ Why,  _ Guerin _? _ ”

_ Because you’re good. Because you don’t deserve it. Because I’m not the only one trapped in Jesse Manes’ iron grip. _

He manages, with some effort, to meet Alex’s gaze again. Searching for a way to share the truth that doesn’t sound patronizing or lovesick.

“Because it hurts me less than it does you,” Michael replies finally.

Alex’s face darkens with anger. “I can take a punch just as well as you can,” he asserts, defensive. 

“That’s not what I mean,” Michael says. “I know you can take it. It’s just--it’s worse when the person hitting you is supposed to be the one protecting you. 

“Yeah, but he’s supposed to be your guardian. He  _ is  _ supposed to be the one protecting you,” Alex replies, and Michael lets out a mirthless laugh before he can rein in the bitter reaction.

“He’s your  _ dad,  _ Alex,” Michael says. “For me, yeah sure, maybe he’s supposed to be my guardian, but I learned a long time ago not to expect protection from anybody. Every Antaran guardian is just another cog in a horrible machine.”

“ _ Every  _ guardian?” Alex asks, and Michael just shrugs. “Guerin,” Alex starts, pity creeping into his voice. “I know I get caught up about what’s going on here--because I’m an idiot and I forget that you had a life before this--you know if you ever want to talk about--”

“Oh, come on, Alex, you know I don’t really want to talk about it,” Michael says, setting down the flask in favor of reaching for his guitar instead. “Any of it. It all just is what it is. That’s all there is to it. Talking doesn’t fix anything.”

“And  _ music _ does?” Alex wonders with a nod to the guitar.

Michael shrugs. “No, but--music makes the rest of it fade away for a little while. All this chaos going on inside me, it just--quiets down as soon as I start playing. Maybe it doesn’t fix anything, but it still helps for a little while.”

“I’m glad,” Alex says. 

Michael plays his way through a few country western songs to fill the silence, watching from the corner of his eye how Alex relaxes more and more as the time passes. He hopes maybe if this gets Alex to chill just as easily as watching reruns, maybe they can start spending nights with music instead of crap television, which would be nice. 

“Any requests?” Michael wonders. “Not sure I know much of your emo rock stuff but if you hum it I could give it a shot.”

“Really? Just playing by ear like that?” Alex asks, apparently impressed.

“How d’you think I learned in the first place?” 

“Honestly, I like what you’re playing,” Alex says, leaning in just a fraction closer. “So go with whatever you want.”

His eyes are wide and kind as he smiles easily at Michael, relaxed enough now that he’s sitting close enough for Alex to catch the slight coconut smell of the product Alex uses in his hair. 

What Michael  _ wants  _ is to lean in and kiss Alex’s lips--the bottom one red and slightly swollen from his bad habit of biting it when he’s nervous. What Michael  _ wants  _ is to find out whether that kiss would be as electric as it always is in Michael’s daydreams. What Michael  _ wants  _ is to offer the kind of tender touch Alex deserves to have, to ghost fingers over every inch of Alex with care, the way he gently assessed Michael’s injuries sometimes. What Michael  _ wants  _ is to give Alex moments so euphoric and wonderful that--even if just for the slightest moment--they can both forget about everything else that’s wrong with the world and just feel something that’s  _ good  _ and  _ right _ . 

_ But what if it ruins everything? _

At the last moment, Michael pulls back from Alex’s space, turning his focus back to the guitar. Alex takes the hint, scoots away from him, neither acknowledging the moment. But when Alex leaves a few minutes later, saying that he should get back up to the house, Michael can’t help feeling like he’s managed to screw up one of the most important opportunities of his life. 

* * *

Michael spends the day convincing himself that it wasn’t as bad as he thought--that maybe,  _ maybe  _ if there is a God and he bothers to listen to the prayers of suicidally idiotic Antaran cowboys that Alex didn’t notice Michael almost kissed him. Maybe it wasn’t as horribly obvious as Michael thought. Maybe he didn’t blow his cover with Alex and completely ruin their friendship. Maybe he didn’t make a total and complete idiot of himself. 

_ Maybe...maybe...maybe… _

By the time Alex arrives home from school, Michael is completely frazzled, and hoping he can just pretend it never happened. Except Alex comes straight to the barn, calling Michael’s name and coming to join him in the tack room when Michael calls back. Michael tries to busy himself with the saddle polish, avoiding Alex’s eyes and trying his best to ignore the almost palpable awkwardness in the atmosphere between them. He glances at Alex, trying to get a read on him without being too obvious. Alex is never looking back, eyes wandering the room but never to Michael; he bites nervously at his bottom lip and Michael forces himself not to stare.

_ He must want to talk, if he’s stayed this long. Why doesn’t he just say something? Unless he’s trying to be nice. Maybe he just doesn’t want to call me out--doesn’t know how to set the record straight without sounding too much like one of our fake fights? _

_ Oh, fuck, I’m going to have to be the one to start talking,  _ Michael realizes.

“Look,” Michael starts, setting aside his task as he takes a deep breath and moves to face Alex, “about last night--” 

“I never should've put you in that position,” Alex interjects, before Michael can finish, taking a nervous step forward to close the distance between them even more. “I really appreciate that you’re okay with me being in your space and hanging out in the bunkhouse with you--I got caught up in the moment and I wasn’t thinking. I would never want to pressure you or make you feel unsafe with me--or make you think I expect--”

Before Michael really thinks about what he’s doing, he steps forward and cuts off Alex’s rambling with a kiss, hand sliding up Alex’s neck to curl around and pull him in closer. Alex’s arms wrap around the small of Michael’s back, apparently just as eager as Mcihael to get as close as they can. The moment is everything Michael hopes it would be and more. The kiss is tentative and gentle--Alex’s lips soft and wet beneath Michael’s own--before giving way to something hungrier, more desperate, as Michael sweeps his tongue hungrily into Alex’s mouth, which earns him a hum of pleasure from Alex. They’re both panting when they break away. 

“You--you’re sure?” Alex wonders.

“Hell yeah,” Michael replies. “If you are?”

“Oh,  _ hell  _ yeah.”

“Good,” Michael says, with a grin, pushing gently until Alex is against the wall and beginning to kiss his way down Alex’s neck as Alex bites on his fist to keep quiet. 

“ _ Fuck,”  _ Alex moans when Michael bites gently at his earlobe, sucking as he pulls away.

“Sure, we can do that,” Michael murmurs in Alex’s ear as a tease. “If you want.”

“ _ Please _ ,” Alex replies instantly, needy and demanding in equal measure, and Michael honest-to-god thinks it might be the best thing he’s ever heard in his life. 

“Yeah? You want that?” Michael wonders.

“Not now; not here; but--yeah,” Alex says, breathless. 

“See you tonight, then,” Michael says, moving in for another kiss, deep and slow before he breaks away. “Cause if I stay, we’re not gonna be able to wait,” he says stepping away from Alex’s hold on him, already missing the contact even as he disappears out into the barn to get an early start on the rest of the necessary work for the evening. 

* * *

Michael spends the rest of the evening wondering whether this is the biggest mistake of his life. He finishes up with work in record time and manages to force down three bites of pasta for dinner before giving up on eating because he’s just too fucking nervous. Getting ready presents a whole other set of problems, because he has absolutely no idea how serious Alex was about the offer to fuck. 

_ Is it worse to seem presumptuous and accidentally try  _ too _ hard? Or to risk being offensive if I don’t seem like I tried hard enough? What the hell am I supposed to wear? Am I overthinking this? Is this just a quick fuck? Or is it more than that? _

_ Oh, please, let it be more than that. _

_ But even if it’s not, it’s something. And probably not just once. _

_ Unless I totally fuck everything up.  _

_ God, I’m such an idiot, this was a terrible plan. _

In the end he decides to treat it all pretty seriously, because, as lovesick or naive as it might make him, it  _ is  _ serious. It’s  _ Alex _ , after all. So he scrubs the dirt out from under his fingernails, and showers twice, just to be sure the smell of the barn is off him, and puts on the nicest clothes he’s got--which isn’t saying much, since it’s just a black button-down workshirt and some jeans--but neither have holes in them yet, which is more than he can say for the majority of the items in his wardrobe. 

Alex knocks on the door just after midnight, and Michael’s fear that this was a terrible, life-ruining idea fades away the moment he lays eyes on Alex again. Because Alex seems excited and hopeful in a way Michael has never seen, even though he’s biting his lips in nervousness in a way that has Michael’s blood racing already. He isn’t dressed up, exactly, but Michael can tell he isn’t the only one who spent some time on his appearance tonight--if Alex’s carefully styled hair, unwrinkled t-shirt, and the faint scent of cologne in the air are any indication.

“Wasn’t sure you were coming,” Michael says. 

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Alex replies. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Alex says.

“I know that, too,” Michael replies even though it’s a lie. He owes Alex more than he can say, but he knows he doesn’t owe Alex sex, and that’s all that  _ really  _ matters right now.

“Okay, because--because it’s important to me that--”

“I’m a big boy, Alex,” Michael says, reaching to strip his shirt off over his head, which has the flattering effect of making Alex’s mouth fall open as his eyes alight with desire. 

“I may not know exactly what the hell I’m doing,” Michael admits, “but I damn sure know what I want,” he declares, taking the two steps across the small space to reach for Alex and draw him into a kiss. 

Alex holds back at first, so Michael sets the pace a little slower than he’d like. Hoping he can coax Alex past his hesitations. Alex puts one hand tentatively on Michael’s neck and rests the other on his bare chest, like he’s worried to be too forceful. Michael does what he can to encourage, reaching underneath Alex’s shirt, running his hands over the warm, smooth skin and more than a little surprised at the firm, defined muscles. He tugs at the hem of Alex’s shirt, and Alex takes the hint, stripping it off over his head. 

“ _ Damn _ , you’ve been hiding that amazing body under your t-shirts all this time?” Michael asks with a grin, focused especially at admiring the  _ sexy as hell  _ gold hoop piercing Alex’s nipple. “I should’ve made a move months ago,” he says, as Alex blushes under the praise. 

Alex initiates the next kiss, moving with more confidence as he wraps his arms around Michael. He relishes the warm feel of skin against skin as their chests press together, cupping the back of Alex’s neck and sliding his other hand lower, running over Alex’s ass through the loose fit of his pants. Alex gasps at the move and breaks the kiss; before Michael can worry it was the wrong move, Alex is unbuttoning his pants and stepping out of them. Michael does the same. Once they’ve both shed everything but their boxers, he pulls them back toward his bunk, bringing them down in a tangle of limbs with Michael on top, pinning Alex to the bunk with his weight as he continues to ravish his mouth. 

“Wait,” Alex says, panting as he pulls back. “You said--you said you might not know what you’re doing,” he recalls.

“What? Am I doing something wrong?” Michael asks, rolling to the side as much as the narrow bunk will allow, wondering whether he should retreat more and get off Alex entirely. 

“No such thing,” Alex replies, smiling up at Michael with kiss-swollen lips, “Just--I mean--this isn’t your first time, is it?”

“Well, not exactly,” Michael replies, nervous, “but--uh--”

“First guy?” Alex asks, and Michael nods. 

“But also--first--person I’ve, ya know, actually  _ cared  _ about,” he finishes, blushing a bit at the declaration, with a huff of nervous laughter. “If I screw this up--”

“You won’t,” Alex says with certainty. “It’s not rocket science, but even if it were, bet you could figure it out, nerd,” he teases.

“Keep it up,” Michael replies. “See if I keep helping you with your homework.”

Before they lose any more of their rhythm, Michael gets back to his task of driving Alex slowly wild, kissing him slow and deep again--messy as they try to find the right rhythm. Michael has fantasized about this moment more times that he can count, but not one of those fantasies does justice to the spectacular feel of Alex’s body moving against his and the wanton sounds Alex makes as Michael leaves Alex’s mouth in favor of kissing his way down Alex’s neck and chest. Only when his lips kiss just above the elastic waist of Alex’s checked boxers does Michael realize with an unwelcome jolt of panic that he’s not actually sure where this is headed. 

Consent matters a lot to Alex. He can’t fuck that up--going farther than Alex would want without Alex’s consent. Plus, Michael’s Antaran, so what if there’s a line Alex doesn’t want him to cross? There’s stigma and rumors and--and--a million other reasons Alex might not want to have sex with Michael in the same ways Michael’s envisioned sex with Alex. Michael can’t just  _ assume.  _

“You sure you’re okay?” Alex asks, apparently noticing Michael’s distraction.

“Yeah,” Michael replies, “but--uh--”

“We can stop if you want to,” Alex offers, lips turning downward into the familiar worried frown.

“No, I don’t want to stop,” Michael assures, and it must come across as sincere as he wants it to because Alex’s frown gives way to a small smile.

“Okay, then, just talk to me. What is it?”

“I want to do this; it’s just--it’s a whole lot easier when there’s whiskey involved,” Michael admits with a breathy laugh against Alex’s chest and then realizes how terrible that must sound. He props up on his elbows, looking down at Alex again. 

“Sorry--I don’t mean--that I would have to be drunk to go to bed with you. I just--this is really new territory and--when it’s just a casual thing, and I’m a little buzzed, I just go with it and do what feels good and I don’t overthink and worry and babble like an absolute idiot, which is what I’m doing now.” 

Michael blushes crimson in embarrassment, hoping that maybe in the dim light of just the muted television and moonlight steaming in the window that maybe Alex can’t see.

“Hey,” Alex says, reaching up slowly to cup Michael’s face in his hand. “There’s no pressure here, you know. We might be sober, but it’s the same idea. Go with it; go with what feels good.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want it to just be  _ good _ ,” Michael replies. “I do have  _ some _ pride,” he adds with a grin, trying desperately to regain some of his bravado. 

“Oh, it’s gonna be  _ great, _ ” Alex replies confidently. “And I have an idea.”

“Oh, yeah?” Michael says, a thrill of excitement sending his heart racing again. 

“Come on; help me push the beds together so we’ve got more space.”

Michael follows Alex’s lead, wondering what exactly he has in mind, and his imagination runs rampant.

“You’re overthinking it,” Alex tells him as they lay back down together, this time on their sides facing one another. 

“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” Michael replies. 

“I know you’re thinking too much,” Alex replies. “Don’t strain yourself.”

“ _ Hey.” _

“Just, follow my lead,” Alex tells him, before leaning in for another kiss to get things going again. “And tell me if something doesn’t feel good or if you want to stop,” he adds. “I mean that, okay?’

“I know you mean it,” Michael replies, barely managing to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “I  _ trust  _ you, Alex,” he adds, “so you trust me. I want this. I want  _ you _ .”

“Me too,” Alex adds, moving back in to kiss Michael again, and this time trailing his fingers down Michael’s bare arm, sending a shiver through Michael. 

_ Follow my lead _ , Alex had said, so Michael mirrors the motion, getting a guttural hum of pleasure from Alex--and he immediately knows that he is going to take every last opportunity he can to get more sounds like that out of Alex because  _ fuck  _ even just that one wrecked him in all the best ways. Alex lets his hands roam Michal’s chest, teasing at his nipples and running nails gently over them; Michael mirrors it, careful of the piercing on Alex’s left, but Alex murmurs, “It’s okay; it doesn’t hurt; it’s what it’s there for, just--gently,” he says with a huff of giddy laughter.

Michael takes the direction, playing at the thin gold hoop and enthralled at the way the move makes Alex toss his head back against the pillow with a needy moan. By the time Alex palms at Michael’s erection through his boxers and tugs gently at the waistband, it’s taking all of Michael’s self control not to just rut his erection shamelessly against Alex. He doesn’t die of embarrassment though because he can feel that Alex is just as far gone. 

“Still good?” Alex wonders, breathless.

“ _ So fucking good, holy hell, _ ” Michael affirms, moving back from Alex to get his boxers out of the goddamn way  _ pronto _ , and thrilled to see Alex doing the same. 

They move back together, each on their side facing the other. Alex leans in to kiss Michael again, one hand gripping Michael’s bicep as he reaches the other down to stroke gently down the length of Michael’s aching erection. Michael makes himself focus on mirroring Alex, determined to reciprocate the unrivaled pleasure Alex is giving him. He does his best to match the perfect firmness of Alex’s smooth strokes; copies how Alex cradles his balls with one hand while using the other to swirl his thumb over the head of Michael’s leaking cock. They’re a tangle of arms and hands with both of them trying to manage the euphoria enough to keep stimulating the other. Michael is entirely overwhelmed with just how fucking  _ amazing _ every moment of this feels and making sure that Alex feels just as blissed out, relishing Alex’s softly muttered curses and groans even as he muffles his own into the warm skin of Alex’s shoulder. 

“Fuck, I’m so close--I--fuck-- _ Michael _ ,” Alex gasps, the sound of Michael’s name whispered like a desperate prayer, and Michael answers with, “Yeah, come with me, Alex.” Alex puts his free hand at the back of Michael’s neck, bringing him closer until their foreheads touch, and in the next moment, Michael’s the one to reach his climax first, with Alex over the edge right behind him. Michael honest-to-god loses just a few moments to the sheer elation that follows, coming back to reality as Alex moves to sit up, and then--to Michael’s despair, to get up. 

_ He’s leaving? _

“Be right back,” Alex says, leaning down to peck a quick kiss on Michael’s lips before returning with warm washcloths so they can clean themselves up. Once that’s done, Alex comes to join Michael so they’re crammed together in one bunk, Michael’s weight half on top of Alex.

“This can’t be comfortable for you,” Michael says. “I’m squashing you.”

“It is,” Alex says. “The weight makes me feel grounded--safe--I dunno. It’s hard to explain.”

“Okay, as long as you’re comfortable.”

“Entirely comfortable. Pretty sure I could lay here with you forever.”

“Me too,” Michael admits.

_ I still can’t believe this is really happening. I keep waiting to wake up from a dream. God, how many times have I envisioned this, and still didn’t manage to do the real thing justice.  _

“What’re you thinking about with that smile?” Alex wonders as his thumb brushes over Michael’s lips, which only makes his smile widen.

“I think that’s the first time you’ve ever said my name,” he replies. 

The post-coital bliss on Alex’s face gives way to a pained look, and Michael wishes he hadn’t been so truthful. 

“I wish it wasn’t,” Alex says, brushing hair gently out of Michael’s face. “When I think about you, in my mind you’re  _ always _ Michael--ever since you told me it was the name you chose for yourself--but if--if I call you that on accident in front of--”

“Shh, sweetheart, I didn’t mean anything by it,” Michael replies, punctuating the sentiment with a kiss. “I kinda like that it’s just for us.”

“Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

“Alex,  _ you’re  _ the one who pointed out that I was smiling like a doof about it,” Michael reminds, trailing his fingers absentmindedly down Alex’s torso, tracing the lines of his muscles. 

“I hate that this can’t be--that we can’t just--that everything is so--”

“I know it’s complicated,” Michael agrees, to stop Alex’s repentant rambling, “but I don’t regret it. Do you?”

“No! I just--if anyone found out.”

“We’ll be careful.”

“Am I just being selfish? You have so much more to lose than I--”

Michael silences the fears temporarily with a kiss

“It’s worth the risk to me,” he murmurs, meeting Alex’s gaze as he brings his hand up to run fingers through Alex’s hair. “You said you want me to have a choice, right? Well, I  _ choose  _ this risk because I want to have this with you a hell of a lot more than I’m scared of anybody else. I want to choose you, but you gotta  _ let _ me choose you. Trust me to know what I want. Okay?”

“Okay,” Alex agrees after just a momentary pause. “And I’m choosing you, too, Michael; you know that, right?”

The assertion is staggering in its intensity, and Michael’s heart races at the thrill of hearing his own desire and devotion repeated by Alex. 

“Yeah, I know,” Michael affirms, sealing their declarations with another tender kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of our favorite chapters (Strangeredlantern has been eagerly awaiting its posting since the conception of this fic idea) so we hope y'all enjoyed it! 
> 
> We live for comments and kudos, so many, many thanks to all those who've left encouragement!! <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've been blown away by the support of the kudos and comments! Thank y'all for reading, and we hope you continue to enjoy!
> 
> Also, we have a chapter count! It may change slightly as we finalize where the chapter breaks will be, but we wanted to give a general idea of where we are in the story arc. HOWEVER, please note that this is going to be a multi-part work.

During the day that follows his first night with Alex, Michael can’t help but be entirely distracted by the residual euphoria of it all. He plays and replays the memories over in his head, and, though he doesn’t have the chance to speak with Alex during the day, Alex catches his eye across the yard, offering a fleeting smile that makes Michael’s heart race. He wonders whether Alex will come again tonight. It would be risky for them to meet too often; that’s the reason Alex has always given for spacing out his visits. It’s as true now as it ever has been, but Michael still hopes to hear the now-familiar soft knock at the door around midnight. He still isn’t exactly sure what Alex wants out of all this.

_Are we just fuck buddies? No, we’re already more than that. We’re friends at least. Maybe friends with benefits then? Or something more?_

_God, I hope something more. But either way, whatever he wants, I’m already all in._

He isn’t as nervous as he was yesterday, managing to eat dinner normally but still showering twice--just in case. He doesn’t put on anything special, just sweatpants and one of his white t-shirts without any stains on it. He plays his guitar, a few old familiar tunes before improvising melodies of his own. The large red numbers on the alarm clock keep the time, an hour of waiting and wondering; then two….three...four…

Just as the clock turns to half past midnight and Michael is starting to feel like a needy, lovesick idiot, the doorknob turns, and Alex enters as he knocks, smiling to see Michael still awake. He’s not dressed up either, in soft plaid pajama pants and a plain gray t-shirt. 

“If it’s okay, I’m not gonna wait outside anymore for you to say ‘come in,’” Alex says as he shuts the door behind him. “The less time I spend in the yard, the better, but you can always tell me to go or stick a chair in front of the door or--”

“Don’t worry so much,” Michael says with a smile. “I appreciate the thought, but, yeah, it makes sense to just come in. That’s fine. I’m--uh--I’m glad you came, he admits, gaze locking on Alex’s. “I wasn’t sure if you would. Thought you might play it safe and wait a couple days like you usually do.”

“I almost did,” Alex replies. “But I didn’t want to wait--even if it was safer. I don’t want to--be pushy--or--I don’t know--smother you or whatever either.” 

The intensity of Alex’s gaze is like a magnet, drawing Michael in. 

“You’re not smothering me,” Michael assures, rising to his feet and placing his guitar to the side so he can go greet Alex properly. “I’m not sure I could ever get tired of your company.”

“You’re pretty good company yourself, Guerin,” Alex replies, meeting Michael halfway to close the distance between them. 

He slips his hand behind Michael’s neck, so tenderly it’s like Michael might break, and brings their lips together. The kiss is soft and sweet, lacking the nervous desperation of last night; somehow it already feels familiar, and the thought makes Michael smile.

“What?” Alex wonders, pulling back from the kiss.

“Nothing,” Michael replies, wrapping his arms around Alex’s waist to pull their bodies flush together. “Just happy,” he admits, resting his forehead against Alex’s.

“Me, too,” Alex replies, threading his fingers through the stray curls at the base of Michael’s neck. “What d’you want to do tonight?” he wonders. “Anything particular in mind?”

“I’m down for anything,” Micheal replies honestly, realizing too late he might sound a little too easy; but it’s true and it’s Alex, so he doesn’t take it back. He just adds, “Or nothing, if you’re not in the mood.”

“We’re seventeen,” Alex says with a grin, “pretty sure we’re always in the mood.”

“Oh, you have no idea; all these months worried I was going to give myself away with all my raging boners… I get so fucking distracted by how _gorgeous_ you are.”

“Oh yeah?” Alex replies, raising an eyebrow in apparent surprise.

“ _Hell_ yeah,” Michael says. “God, _especially_ that happy, cocky smile you get when we’re out riding and you win a race,” Michael makes a quick imitation of Alex’s winning smile, “gets me every time.” Alex laughs under his breath and looks away bashfully for a second.

“You’re one to talk,” Alex replies. “Mr. ‘Bet you can’t beat me to that mesa Alex’ and ‘Here, let me help you get up in the saddle, Alex,” and ‘Be right with you, Alex, just let me toss this hay bale with my bulging biceps like it’s nothing.’” Alex teases. “I was scared you were going to notice me staring all the time and think I was a creep. Nobody has the right to look so damn good doing _farm chores_ and not even trying.”

“The macho cowboy swagger does it for you, huh?”

“Never gets old,” Alex affirms, leaning in for another kiss, letting his hand trail from its place at Michael’s neck to lightly squeeze his ass.

“Well, in that case,” Michael says--and he lifts Alex up in a fireman carry, trying hard to act like it’s nothing--and it’s not really, Alex is lithe and muscular, but he’s no body-builder, and Michael’s been on physical labor work placements for years now. 

Alex laughs at the move, which only encourages Michael. He may have scooped Alex up without ceremony, but he’s sure to be gentle as he lays him down on the bed. Desire flares in Alex’s eyes, and he reaches to grab the waist of Michael’s pants and pull Michael down on top of him, humming in pleasure as his weight settles and he wraps his arms around Michael. He holds him close for a moment before pulling back enough to bring his lips to Michael’s in another kiss, all languidness gone now, sweeping his tongue into Michael’s mouth. Michael returns the kiss in kind, breaking it only to draw breath and start kissing a line down Alex’s neck instead, getting a quiet moan of pleasure from Alex. 

“Shirts off,” Alex says, and Michael agrees, raising up to strip of his own as Alex does the same, tossing them to the side as he resumes his task of kissing down Alex’s neck, free now to continue working his way until he sucks lightly at Alex’s unpierced nipple while brushing his fingers over to play gently with Alex’s piercing in the other. Alex’s hands run down Michael’s back as he makes his ministrations, trailing his nails lightly over every inch of Michael he can reach. He threads his fingers through Michael’s hair, guiding gently back to bring their lips together again. His free hand grips at Michael’s ass, erections pressing against each other through the rough fabric of their pants.

“Fuck,” Michael murmurs when their lips part. 

“I know what I wanna do,” Alex says breathlessly. 

“Tell me,” Michael bids, whispering the words against Alex’s ear and relishing Alex’s gasp at the sensation. 

“I wanna suck you off and--”

Michael doesn’t hear the rest of the sentence, losing a moment of time in shock at the suggestion. He doesn’t remember deciding to pull away, but he’s suddenly sitting up, wedged on the edge of the bed, unable to look at Alex. It registers in his peripheral that Alex is sitting up, too. 

“ _Michael?”_ Alex says, in a concerned tone that suggests it’s not the first time he’s called Michael’s name.

“You can’t,” Michael says, automatically, managing with effort to bring his gaze back up to Alex’s face. 

“Okay,” Alex replies, brow furrowed in the familiar worry Michael hates to see. He stays close, sitting just an inch away, but clearly hesitant of touching Michael, as if he suddenly isn’t sure whether it’s okay anymore. “if that’s not something you’d enjoy, that’s fine. It was just an idea.”

“No, that’s not--I mean--I could--do that--for you--if--if you want, though,” Michael stammers, cursing himself mentally for babbling like such an idiot. 

“As much as I’d love that, it’s not an offer I’m gonna take you up on when you’re shaking like a leaf,” Alex says. 

“I’m not shaking. I’m fine,” Michael protests, holding his hand up to prove it to himself, but he _is_ trembling. “Oh, well, _fuck_ ,” Michael comments as he crosses his arms tight and quick. “I don’t mean to be--I’m just--I wasn’t expecting…”

_I wasn’t expecting you to offer me a blow job like it was no big deal. Like it doesn’t cross about a million boundaries ingrained in both our cultures. Like something I could have in real life when I don’t even let myself cross that line in daydreams._

Michael unclenches and drops his hands back down to his thigh, fingers spread wide to brace himself, focusing on taking even breaths to try and calm down. Alex reaches slowly to cover Michael’s hand with his own. 

“We can stop,” Alex offers gently. “We don’t have to do anything tonight. That’s just as good with me. We could just hang out like--”

“No, that’s not what I want--that’s the _last_ thing I want,” Michael protests. “I want to keep going to--to get back to where we were like ten seconds ago before I totally killed the vibe.”

“You didn’t ‘kill the vibe’--we’re just--regrouping for a sec,” Alex says. “Just wanted to be clear that backing off for the night is totally an option.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but let’s just--get back to where we were,” Michael suggests, leaning in for a kiss, and Alex returns it, resisting the desperate pace Michael tries to set. Keeping his kisses timid and gentle, and taking hold of Michael the same way, wrapping arms around to pull him close, and breaking their uncoordinated rhythm presumably to interrogate Michaels _feelings_.

“Can you at least tell me what made you uncomfortable? So I don’t do it again?” Alex asks. As much as Michael wants to be irritated at Alex for forcing him to talk through this, he can’t deny that there is nothing but care and concern in Alex’s tone.

“You can’t--can’t,” Michael replies, trying to explain but struggling to find the words and once again unable to look Alex in the eye. He rests his head on Alex’s shoulder instead. “I mean, come on, Alex, you _have_ to _know_ you can’t just offer to--to--ya know--” _Unless, you didn’t mean it?_ “Wait, did I freak out over nothing?” Michael wonders as he strokes his hand down Alex’s neck and shoulder. “Were you just--like--going for dirty talk? Not a real suggestion?”

“Are you asking if it was a real suggestion for me to give you a blow job?” Alex asks, apparently struggling to follow Michael’s train of thought. Alex catches Michael’s wandering hand and threads it with his fingers, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “Yeah it was a real suggestion, but, like I said if you’re not--”

“No, Alex, you _can’t_ just--why would you--you don’t have to,” Michael tries to explain, lifting his head from Alex’s shoulder only to realize he still can’t look him in the eye and settling his gaze on their interlaced fingers instead. “I know what I am, Alex. I’m not ashamed of it, but I’m not oblivious either. I’m Antaran, and that just--just means that this-- _we_ \--can’t be what--what we would be if I were a human,” he manages. “It’s fine; I knew what I was signing up for. You can’t think I would _actually_ expect you to--”

“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute,” Alex interrupts, and he reaches his free hand to touch Michael’s cheek, inviting Michael to face him, but Michael ducks away from the touch, keeping eyes fixed on their hands where they rest on Michael’s thigh. “Are you saying that I can’t give you a blow job because you’re Antaran? Not because you wouldn’t _want_ a blow job?”

Michael nods, face burning with shame that he doesn’t entirely understand. “Like I said, though, I’m totally down to give _you_ a _\--_ ”

“Michael you’re talking like--like you think I’m slumming it to be with you? Like it’s--beneath me? Or something?” Alex says, apparently thrown, and when Michael doesn’t contradict him he continues. “So--what then? I shouldn’t have to go down on you, but you’ll go down on me?”

“Well, yeah, Alex, but it’s okay; that’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’m good with--”

“And what?” Alex continues, voice flickering between indignation, anger, and devastation. “When we--I mean--ya know-- _if_ we decide we want to start fucking, I guess it doesn’t matter what _you_ prefer? I’ll fuck you just because I’m human?” When Michael doesn’t answer immediately, Alex persists, “Is that what you think?”

Michael manages to find his voice after a few seconds and admit, “I just--kind of--assumed it went without saying that--”

“Michael you _have_ to know what _bullshit_ that is. You’re not _less_ than me just because--”

“Of course, I am, Alex!” Michael rants back, frustration eclipsing the shame as he turns to look at Alex. “Don’t be naive! Don’t give me some speech about Antarans and humans being on the same level when my people are _completely_ controlled by yours!”

“Michael--”

“Look, we both know it’s bad enough that you’d fuck an Antaran,” Michael continues. “But it’s _nothing_ compared to letting an Antaran fuck _you_. That’s--that’s--”

 _Dirty. Disgusting. Revolting. Depraved. And, God, if anyone ever knew…_ Michael shudders at the thought. 

Alex looks stricken, mouth agape in something too close to horror for Michael to keep watching, so he drops his gaze again. He waits for Alex to break his grip on Michael’s hand. To walk away. To admit he clearly hasn’t thought this through as much as he should have. To admit he didn’t consider all the repercussions and implications and--

Alex does rise from the bed, and Michael bites back a plea for him to stay when Alex breaks his hold on his hand, gripping the side of the bed in an attempt to ground himself. But instead of leaving, Alex crouches on the floor in front of Michael, looking up at him with nothing but heart-wrenching earnesty in his eyes. He reaches to cover both Michael’s hands with his own, and Michael slowly releases the hold on the bed frame to take Alex’s hands in his and redirect them to his lap.

“Michael, I’m not naive. I know that the rest of the world thinks that way. You’re right that my people control yours, and that’s _wrong_. It’s so fucked up I can’t even begin to put words to it. And--and out there,” Alex says, waving vaguely toward the door. “They preach xenophobic, racist bullshit about the depravity of inter-species relationships, and I wish I could change that, but--but I can’t--”

“I know you can’t; I don’t expect you to. So just--”

“But _in here_ ,” Alex goes on, unwavering. “ _In here_ it’s just you and me, it’s _just us_ , and their politics and propaganda and games don’t get to touch us. They don’t get to impose on this, on us. Not in here,” he declares, pressing a kiss to the back of Michael’s hand. “And if we’re going to do this, if we’re going to be together, then we do it as equals or not at all.”

“Alex--”

“And if anything I ever suggest makes you too uncomfortable,” Alex adds, “that’s okay. If you don’t _want_ me to go down on you or if you don’t _want_ to fuck me or--or anything else, it’s completly and totally fine if you don’t want to do something; I’m not interested in anything you’re not interested in doing. But please, _please_ don’t ever say no just because of some moralistic bullshit impression they tried to ingrain in you. Okay?”

Michael should protest. He should try to make Alex understand what he’s getting into. Except Alex knows already--hell the warden and Flint would probably beat them both within an inch of their lives if they found out, regardless of any details about who was fucking who. But he can’t quite manage to form any kind of response. Alex starts to sound just a little desperate as he continues.

“You remember when I came out to you? After everything with Flint?” Alex asks, and Michael nods. “I was _terrified_ you were gonna think differently of me--that it would change things or--you wouldn’t be able to accept it. And then you just said, ‘It doesn’t change a thing as far as I’m concerned. You’re still the same person you’ve been the whole time we’ve been friends,’” Alex recounts. “That’s how I feel about this. Maybe we’re not the same species, but you’re still the same _person_. You’re not lesser or inferior or anything like that to me. You’re the same person you’ve been since we met. I’ve always treated you, at least I hope I’ve treated you, like an equal. Nothing’s ever gonna change that, especially when we can get away from my insane family… and I don’t intend to stop now.”

“Are you… sure?” Michael wonders finally because he’s at a loss for how to protest further--and he doesn’t really _want_ to protest further, even if it makes him terrible for not insisting Alex mitigate at least some of the socially unacceptable parts of this fraught, forbidden relationship. He has the fleeting thought that he should have suggested just being fuck buddies--that he try to keep Alex at arms length--but he doesn’t just want sex with Alex. He wants _all_ of Alex--as much as he can get anyway. 

“I’m _positive_ ,” Alex affirms.

The intensity of the declaration is overwhelming, but Michael rides the invigorating wave of it. He reaches out to pull Alex back up to the bunk with him, crashing their lips together in a messy kiss, each hungry to reclaim the momentum they had before. Alex lays back on the bed again, pulling Michael on top of him once more. He lets Michael set the pace at first, easing back into their rhythm. He laps at the gold ring in Alex’s nipple, getting a slight thrill at the hint of cold when the metal touches his warm tongue. Alex moans his name and throws his head back, and Michael thinks he may have just found his new favorite move during foreplay. Alex reaches down between them to palm at Michael’s half-hard cock through the rough denim of his jeans, and Michael ruts shamelessly against the friction, unable to control himself. 

“Fuck, Alex.”

“Can we switch places?” Alex asks, breathless. His face is flushed and it gives him a breathtaking, eager glow that’s driving Michael wild. “And--lose the pants?”

“Yeah--yeah,” Michael agrees quickly, rising from the bed to shuck off his jeans as Alex follows suit. Alex rises too, giving Michael room to settle himself on the bed. He tries to muster some confidence, and folds his arms behind his head smiling up at Alex. Alex stands for a moment longer, and Michael is struck with just how breathtakingly gorgeous Alex is--chiseled cheek bones and the cut of his hip peeking out of the top of his boxer briefs and _fuck_ his face is just glowing with excitement and _want_ . Alex’s eyes sweep over Michael’s body head to toe, in unmistakeable adoration. He honest-to-God pauses with his gaze on Michael’s erection where it tents his boxers and _licks his lips._

“Jesus, Alex, get down here,” Michael tells him, leaning up to tug at Alex’s arm. 

Alex chuckles a little and does join Michael on the bunk, bracing with his elbow to keep his full weight off of Michael, but leaning down to mirror the treatment Michael just gave him. He teases his fingers over Micheal’s chest, tweaking slightly at Michael’s nipples before sucking one into his mouth, grating teeth just slightly over the sensitive skin and a hiss of pleasure escapes Michael. He reaches for every inch of Alex he can, running fingers through Alex’s hair, stroking down his neck and back. Alex slips his fingers under the edge of Michael’s boxers, meeting Michael’s gaze as he quirks up an eyebrow.

“Is it okay if I take these off?” 

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Michael replies.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I know,” Michael gasps, “Or anything you don’t want to, either,” Michael adds.

Alex leans down to kiss him again, sweet and slow for a moment while he cradles Michael’s neck under his ears before pulling away to rest his forehead against Michael’s and admits, “God, I do want to; I want you _so bad_.” 

He tugs at Michael’s boxers, and Michael doesn’t need further encouragement to buck his hips up off the bed to shimmy out of them. Alex’s eyes alight with desire, and even if Michael can’t understand why in hell Alex would want him like this, there’s no mistaking the miraculous fact that Alex is clearly down for it. He licks a slow line from the center of Michael’s chest down toward his groin, and Michael shudders with pleasure at the sensation. Alex teases him, kisses at the cut of Michael’s hips, runs his fingers down and around Michael’s thighs. Only after a thorough teasing does he _finally_ stroke his hand slowly down the length of Michael’s aching cock. Michael cries out, bucking up into Alex’s hand just a bit before he can rein himself in. He fists his hands in the sheets, trying not to writhe under the indescribably wonderful feel of it. 

Alex pauses just long enough to take one of Michael’s hands in his and bring it to the back of his head, looking up at Michael through adorable black-lined eyes, biting his lip a little nervously as he requests, “Tug on my hair a little? If you want…”

“ _Fuck_ , Alex,” Michael replies, fingers tightening in Alex’s silky dark mess of hair already, closing his eyes to try and even his breathing as he adds, “You keep teasing me and saying shit like that and I’m gonna come before you ever even get your mouth on me. _Fuck!_ ” he mutters, willing himself to keep some semblance of control and last as long as he can.

“Can’t have that,” Alex says, murmuring the words against Michael’s chest as he moves back down. 

He resumes his teasing strokes for a few moments more, and Michael watches in absolute disbelief that this gorgeous guy is enjoying driving him absolutely wild. When Alex cups his balls, fondling at the same time he licks slowly up Michael’s shaft, Michael honestly almost comes. 

“Fuck, _fuck,_ I’m not gonna last very much longer--”

“Shh, I got you,” Alex says, and he squeezes at the base of Michael’s cock, bringing him back just slightly from the edge. 

In the next instant, Alex envelops the tip of Michael in the exquisite heat of his mouth, sucking slightly, even as he continues to look up at Michael through heavy-lidded eyes. It’s too much in the best way, and Michael closes his eyes, throwing his head back into the mattress, and gripping desperately at the sheets with the hand not in Alex’s hair--forcing that to remain controlled enough not to hurt him. 

He gets absolutely lost in the sensation of Alex’s ministrations, muttering curses as he tries to keep from shouting at the sheer overwhelming pleasure of it all, trying not to buck up off the mattress, trying not to pull too hard at Alex’s hair.

“So close,” he manages to say, between his unintelligible moans of ecstacy. He means it as a warning--for Alex to move, but when the heat of Alex’s mouth leaves him, it’s only for a moment so Alex can say, “Good, I want to taste you.”

And then Alex takes him in deep, until Michael’s cock hits the back of his throat, and Alex swallows around him, sucking hard. Michael shudders as his climax races through him, vision whiting out for just a moment as he loses absolutely all semblance of awareness or control. Time jumps, and suddenly Alex is nestled beside him in the bed. 

“Just--just a sec and I’ll--return the--the favor,” Michael manages, still gasping. 

It earns him a giddy laugh from Alex, and the sound is the best kind of music to Michael’s ears. 

“Don’t think I can wait that long,” Alex says, voice high and needy. “Is it--would it be okay if I just--” he reaches down to take himself in hand, dipping below the elastic of his boxer briefs. 

Michael follows his hand without hesitation, requesting, “Let me?”

“ _Fuck,_ yeah,” Alex agrees, “ _just_ \--”

His words give way to a wanton moan as Michael palms at Alex’s cock through the cotton underwear, damp with precome. Michael pulls down the fabric just enough to free what must be an almost painful erection. He teases with a few gentle strokes before cupping Alex’s balls, and, while Michael thought he was just getting started, it seems Alex was too wound up to take anymore. He comes with a loud cry muffled into Michael’s chest as he clunches tight to Michael’s neck. 

“Damn, that was hot,” Micheal declares, pecking a kiss to the top of Alex’s head. He gives Alex’s dick a few more gentle tugs to see him squirm and laugh. 

“Of course it was,” Alex says with a cocky grin as they readjust so they’re laying on their sides, facing one another in a loose embrace. “You’re _welcome_ ,” he teases, reaching to brush some of Michael’s hair from his face, a move Michael is coming to recognize as more a show of affection than any expectation of actually controlling his messy locks. “You good?” Alex wonders.

“So far beyond good,” Michael replies. “You?”

“Same,” Alex agrees with a smile and another quip of giddy laughter. “So far beyond good.”

* * *

The warden’s temper remains manageable. On top of that, Michael has the suspicion that Flint’s been instructed not to touch him--presumably a new limit set by the warden in the wake of Michael’s trip to the clinic. Flint invades his space and orders him around and throws plenty of slurs Michael’s way, but it never goes beyond that--no more slaps or boxing Michael’s ears. No more intrusions into the bunkhouse. All in all, it would be a predictable enough peace to make this one of Michael’s best placements. But with the progression of his relationship with Alex, Michael now knows, beyond doubt, that this is the closest to a true home he’s known in nearly a decade.

Alex still _loathes_ coming in to find Michael sporting a bruised eye or split lip, but as far as Michael is concerned, it’s a small price to pay for the love that fills the stolen moments with Alex. He’s not naive enough to think he can keep it forever. Someday soon--sooner than Michael dares to think--Alex will start his own life, hopefully far, _far_ away from his father and this fucked up system. In the meantime, Michael relishes what they have--however fleeting it may be. It’s so intense and thrilling and wonderful that he truly can’t focus too long on it without being overwhelmed with the fear that when that time comes and he loses Alex, he’ll never have this feeling in his life again. Filling the void of losing Max and Isobel in his daily life was daunting enough. But filling the void Alex will leave...it’s going to be impossible. 

_Not enough acetone in all the world to cover up that kind of pain..._

Michael has just finished hanging up Yuma’s tack, still lost in his melancholy thoughts, wondering whether he should lie to Alex about the bruised cheek and split lip the warden doled out to him this morning and claim they were from the job, when he hears the sound of the side barn door slide open. 

“Hello?” he calls, heart rate jumping as his nerves go on edge. 

He’s not expecting anyone. It’s mid-afternoon. No one else should be here, unless Alex is home early, which means something wrong at school--or the warden’s home early, which means Michael should probably duck out the back and try to make himself scarce for a while. 

“It’s Rosa Ortecho,” a young, female voice calls back. “From the Crashdown? I was in the neighborhood, just wanted to stop by and chat. It’s been good to see you coming in with Max and Isobel these last few weeks.”

Michael steps out of the tack room to find Rosa and a middle-aged man he doesn’t recognize standing in the aisle of the barn. The surprise visit makes no sense anyway; even though he recognizes Rosa. But her appearance with a complete stranger who is holding a small video camera sets Michael’s instincts to high alert, heart racing now as he tries in vain to assess what the situation is. 

_What? A documentary? Or something? Please, God, just let it be some dumb school project bullshit. Let it be an assignment for a class with Alex he forgot to tell me about. Let it be explainable. Please don’t rock the boat. Things have been going so well!_

“You remember me, right?” Rosa says. “From when we were kids, but from the last couple trips to the cafe, too?”

“Yeah, I remember you,” Michael confirms, “but the warden isn’t home, and--”

“I know,” she replies. “I wanted a chance for us to catch up alone.”

He glances from Rosa to the stranger. “Alone?”

“Oh, sorry, Michael, this is Grant Green,” Rosa says. “He’s just a friend of mine. We do a little freelance reporting, and--”

_Reporting?!? Oh, fuck. No._

“You shouldn’t be here,” Michael says immediately. “This is--it’s private property. You need Warden Manes’ permission for--whatever it is you’re doing here.”

“His permission just to check in with a friend?” Rosa asks. “That seems extreme.”

“It’s just AWP protocol,” he replies to her challenge, repeating the excuse he gives to his siblings to limit their visits. 

“It’s _protocol_?” Rosa scoffs. “To isolate you? That doesn’t seem very fair.”

“I have work to do,” Michael says. 

“I know. I’m not trying to keep you from it or get you in trouble. You don’t have to worry, okay? I swear to you that I just want to help,” Rosa assures, and her smile seems so genuine it might put Michael at ease if Grant wasn’t there with a camera pointed at him. 

“Help?” Michael repeats. “Help with what?” 

“With _you_ , Michael,” Grant says, interjecting for the first time. “We attempted to get an interview with you when you first arrived, but the warden declined.”

“Max and Isobel are the ones with the important jobs and talk to the press and all,” Michael says. “I’m just here to do a job that isn’t all that interesting, unless you’re doing a piece on horseback riding. But you need to talk to the warden, not me. You shouldn’t be here.”

“This is the only way to speak with you,” Grant persists, “and other Antarans like you. It’s clear the warden wants you isolated from everyone, especially the press.”

“That’s--that’s because there were threats at--at my last placement,” Michael replies, although he still isn’t sure if it was contrived or not; he certainly never had any firsthand experience with it, but it’s the official story; it’s safe to hide behind. “This placement’s requirements protect me from--”

“They're not protecting _you_ ; they’re protecting _themselves_ ,” Grant declares, “from the blowout that would come if the real, uncensored stories of Antarans like you made it out into the world.”

“Antarans like me?” 

“I’ve seen you at Crashdown lately,” Rosa goes on. “I remember what you were like when we were kids, Michael. I can _see_ the change in you. You’re living proof of how this system is failing antarans.”

_No, no, no, no._

_They’re not just going to rock the boat; they’re going to fucking torpedo it._

_Fuck._

“I’m not proof of anything,” Michael protests. “There’s nothing to prove,” he lies. 

“Don’t defend them. You don’t owe them anything. This system is broken, and you know it firsthand,” Rosa says. “I can see it in your eyes when you’re at the cafe trying to put on a happy face for Max and Isobel.”

“I don’t know what you’re talk--”

“I hear Max and Isobel mention their worries that this job is too dangerous for you--when they talk about broken bones and cuts that need stitches and all the tiny bumps and bruises that never seem to stop.”

“It’s a tough job, but I--”

“You aren’t happy, Michael,” she interrupts again. “How could you be? You’re trapped and alone under the warden’s total control.”

“It’s just standard AWP protocol for antaran minors. I--”

“We want you to see that you _deserve_ to be happy and safe and taken care of. That _all_ antarans deserve that. That’s all we’re trying to do here. We just want to help you be happy. Please, let me help you.” 

“I don’t need help, I’m _fine_!” Michael insists.

“They separated you from your siblings,” Rose reminds sadly. 

“A cluster of three antarans would be hard for any set of humans to handle,” Michael says, repeating automatically the line he’s been fed until it comes as second nature. “Everybody knows one-to-one is as stretched thin as a placement should be. It was better for everybody if--”

“Then jerking you around to nearly a dozen placements in ten years--” 

“I was a difficult kid, that’s all. It’s all right there in my file. Behavioral issues.”

“And what exactly did they do to you trying to keep your behavior in line?” Grant asks gruffly. 

“ _Do_ to me?” Michael repeats, playing dumb and trying to control his panic now that they’re perilously close to the secret he’s been trying to keep about this placement.

“Tell me how you get that split lip, Michael,” Rosa demands, and Michael’s hand goes up to cover it from sight before he can stop the reaction. 

_Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck._ He drops his hand back down, but too late. 

It seems to be the only confirmation Rosa needs that Michael is being mistreated; she looks sad, but unsurprised. Grant looks positively gleeful checking the camera and fiddling with controls as if he’s just concerned about making sure the footage is optimal. 

“And that bruise on your cheek,” she adds. “You can be honest with us. We can _help_ you, just tell us what’s going on,” she urges. 

“It’s not like that,” Michael says, but even he can tell it’s not a convincing response. 

_Do better. You can do better than this, Michael. Come on. Get it together. Sell the lie. You’ve done it a million times. Come on._

“It’s just--the horse at the end down there, Yuma, she does like this head-butt thing that’s meant to be affectionate,” he says, trying to use some truth to bolster his lie, “she caught me off guard this morning is all.”

“If you aren’t honest with us, we can’t help you,” Grant persists, “we all know that’s not the truth.”

“Who hit you, Michael?” Rosa asks gently.

“Nobody! The horse just--”

“How _often_ does Warden Manes hit you?” Grant continues.

“He doesn’t!” 

_Think, Michael. Think. Come on!_

“Maybe he just turns the other way when his sons rough you up,” Grant suggests. 

“Stop it! You’re just--just making things up! Leave me--leave me alone!”

He can hear the panic in his own voice, he knows he’s getting less credible by the minute. They caught him off guard, rattled him. And they’re videotaping all of it. It’s worse than just their word against his. There’s video footage. Footage of the antaran stable boy with a busted lip and a bruised cheekbone, panicking at questions about the warden who works for the system that no one can protect him from. They’re threatening this placement that has given him a _lot._ For the first time in so long is _finally_ letting him be near Isobel and Max; where he actually really likes his work; and where even the bad days are all manageable. Its where he found Alex.

_If I fuck this up, I lose Alex now instead of later. I can’t let that happen. I have to derail whatever the hell story they’re trying to make of me. Fuck!_

Michael knows firsthand, after all, just how far a video can spread and the unwanted spotlight it can bring. This wouldn’t be a good situation to be in even if he were just some random antaran; but he’s a “media sensation” as all the news outlets phrased it. That’s probably why they picked him--his previous attention from the press will give their story a head start. They’ve got traction right out of the gate. 

_Think, Michael. Think. You can’t let them leave here with this footage._

“We can’t ‘leave you alone,’” Grant replies, almost sadly. “Don’t you understand, that’s the problem? Humans turning a blind eye to problems instead of working until we get to the truth. The world needs to know what’s _really_ happening in the GRACE-US system. Your _people_ need humans everywhere to understand so that we can make a difference. Tell us what’s _really_ going on here. Help us get the truth out there. Tell us where those injuries came from; and the real story of the scar on your temple; and I’ll bet you could tell the story of a lot of other scars we can’t even see from _years_ of abuse at the hands of--”

“I said _stop it_!” Michael commands, finally losing his control and taking an angry step toward Grant, stopping himself just in time before he swipes for the camera. 

_The warden will be furious if this footage gets out and has to be managed, but there will be even more hell to pay if I hurt a human. They’ll up my behavior level to double digits. They’ll confine me to camp. No more Max and Isobel privileges. No more Alex._

_I can’t lose Alex._

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

“Grant, we’re not here to bully him!” Rosa chastises. 

“Could’ve fooled me!” Michael retorts, taking a step back to try and collect himself; Grant looks almost disappointed. “Look, I’m just--just trying to do my job here, okay? I don’t know why you’re trying to get a rise out of me or--or--whatever this is. Nobody’s hurting me or failing me or--or anything. I’m just here doing a job; that’s it.”

“Michael, _please_ just let us help,” Rosa implores.

She reaches out in what was probably meant to be a comforting gesture, but Michael is too wound up now to stop his natural reaction of flinching away from the movement. She has no goddamn right to look as devastated as she does when her move gets that response. _She’s_ the one who’s fucking everything up because she had to barge in here on some idiotic antaran do-gooder mission. 

“I’m not going to hurt you, Michael,” she soothes. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m not--not _scared_ I just--you--you startled me and--and--”

He turns away from both of them, running a shaky hand over his face as he tries to gather his wits enough to just _think_. He can’t let them leave with whatever footage they’ve got; he needs to figure out some way to keep them here long enough to get some backup. 

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

“You shouldn’t have to live like this; _no one_ should,” Rosa says, gently. “You must know that. We can get you away from whoever is hurting you.”

 _No you can’t,_ Michael thinks bitterly. _Even if you could, what about Alex? I can’t leave Alex. I won’t give him up. Not for anything, much less for someone else’s suicide mission of a news story._

Rosa does seem earnest, but the promise to protect him is an empty one, whether she knows it or not. Michael’s had a decade of firsthand experience that even the humans who think they’re helping rarely are. Rosa doesn’t really understand what she’s up against, how terrible this story she’s chasing truly is. She’s playing with fire, and she’s going to get burned. 

And hell if Michael is going to let her half-baked crusade incinerate him and Alex, too. 

_Think, Michael. Think._

_I can’t just get the hell out of here, and let them leave them to do whatever they want. But I can’t take the camera away; he’ll fight me for it, and I can’t fight back._

The idea comes in a flash, and he’s already consumed with guilt for planning to screw Rosa over when Michael knows she’s trying to help. But he doesn’t see another way out. He walks a few steps away, still not facing them, leaning against the nearest wall for just a moment as he steels himself to play the part he needs to. 

_Come on, Michael. You’ve been acting with Alex for weeks. Hell, you’ve been acting one part or another for your whole life. You can fool these two and get yourself out of this._

“Michael?” Rosa prompts. “Are you okay?”

 _Not even a little,_ he thinks bitterly, _no thanks to you. It had been a pretty good day until you showed up._

He turns back to them slowly, letting his eyes dart to either side, biting at his lip. “We shouldn’t talk out here,” he says quietly, “anybody could just walk in, and we’re out in the open.”

“Right, of course,” Rosa says, taking his concern seriously, but clearly eager to keep him cooperative, “where would you feel safer talking to us?”

“This way,” Michael says, walking past them to lead the way to the empty stall at the end of the aisle. “We’ll just duck in here,” Michael says “It’s clean. It’s always empty actually, an extra. Should be room for all of us, just so we’re not out in the middle of the barn.”

“Wherever you’re more comfortable,” Rosa says with a smile. 

Michael slides the stall door open, gesturing for them to step in first, which they do.

“The lighting isn’t great, but I can make it work,” Grant comments. 

It’s almost too easy, then, to just slide the door back shut with a slam, instead of entering behind them. Michael clicks the padlock on the stall shut just as they realize what he’s really doing.

“What the _hell_ ?!” Grant demands. “You little _snake_!”

“Michael, don’t do this,” Rosa implores. “I know you don’t want to do this. We just want to _help_!”

“I tried to tell you,” he replies, careful to keep his voice even. “I don’t need any help.”

“You can’t just leave us in here like fucking _animals_!” Grant fumes as Michael turns to walk away.

“I don’t know where the key is,” Michael says honestly, heading for the side door of the barn. “You’ll have to wait until Warden Manes gets here,” he calls back over his shoulder. 

“You little _asshole_!” Grant yells after him. 

* * *

Once he’s outside the barn, Michael leans against it, trembling head-to-toe with residual adrenaline. He sinks down to the ground for just a moment, breathing deep to stave off the panic that’s fighting to overwhelm him.

_I can do this; I can do this. I’ve lied my way out of a million worse things. It’d all gonna be fine._

He gets slowly back up to his feet and heads for the bunkhouse, pausing for a quick drink of water right out of the faucet. He digs his ID card out of the top drawer of the dresser--where it stays except for his occasional outings to town.

_In case of emergencies pertaining to this Antaran:_

_MICHAEL GUERIN_

_Direct any questions and updates to his/her Guardian:_

_WARDEN JESSE MANES, 575-555-2467_

_Or to GRACE-US West, 1-800-268-2726_

He dials the number into the phone, fucking it up twice in his haste before finally getting it right. The warden’s number goes directly to voicemail. He hesitates for just another moment before dialing the mail camp line instead. 

“GRACE-US West, this is Victoria speaking, how may I direct your call?” 

“I need to speak with Warden Manes,” Michael replies. “This is his son, Alex,” he lies, praying that Victoria in the call center isn’t someone Alex would know. “I have to talk to him. It’s an emergency. I tried his cell, but I guess he doesn’t have service, so could you please--”

“Of course, Alex, just one moment let me see if I can connect you.”

“Thank you.”

Michael forces himself to take a couple of deep breaths in the seconds that pass while he waits. 

_He’ll understand. I’ll explain, and he’ll understand. I didn’t tell them to come here. I didn’t tell them anything. I’m calling to alert him instead of hiding it. I’m trying to do what he’d want. He can’t be mad at me for this. It’s not my fault. Please, please, please, let him not be mad at me._

There’s a click on the other end of the line and the warden answers, “Alex? What’s wrong?” 

“Please don’t hang up, sir. It’s Guerin, not Alex, but it really is an emergency. That part wasn’t a lie.”

“Okay then, you’d better explain yourself,” he replies in a tone even and unsurprised enough to suggest other people may be able to overhear. 

Michael summarizes as best he can, concluding with. “I know it’s not ideal, but I didn’t know what else to do, and--”

“Stop rambling,” the warden tells him. “I’m hanging up to call Sheriff Valenti to meet me at the ranch. Go back to the stable and make _sure_ they don’t go anywhere. Don’t speak to them anymore, not one single word. If the sheriff arrives before me, you tell her that you’re not comfortable speaking without your guardian present, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

The line goes dead in the next instant, and Michael hangs up the phone slowly. He takes a moment to quickly down half a glass of water before going back to the barn. He’s a master at sneaking silently around the ranch by now, so they don’t hear him reenter. He can hear murmuring from the stall, so Grant and Rosa are still there, but he doesn’t go close enough to hear. By the time he hears the sound of a car crunching the gravel of the barn driveway, Michael has well and truly pulled himself together, which is especially good since it seems the sheriff did beat the warden here. 

Michael’s failure to be composed earlier is much easier to explain away than a failure now, in front of the sheriff. He feels grounded though, ready to stand and deliver the lies needed to make this go away with as little fanfare as possible. It’s made even easier because Max is with the sheriff. Suddenly, Michael’s not just lying to protect himself and Alex. He’s also doing it because the truth would kill his brother. 

“Good afternoon, Guerin,” the sheriff greets as they exit the cruiser and come over to where he stands in the now open side door of the barn. “Can you direct me to where they are?”

“Yes, ma’am, they’re just down there,” he says, pointing. “That last stall on the left. It’s an extra one, so it’s clean and they’re--they’re not hurt. I just don’t have the key to it so--”

“Thank you,” she says, brushing past him to go see for herself, calling “Ms. Ortecho? Mr. Green?”

He’s distracted from any response by Max pulling him outside and away from the barn door. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, firmly in brother-mode regardless of his current role here as a cadet declared by the brass badge on his uniform. He puts a hand on Michael’s shoulder, ducking a little to make Michael look him in the eyes. “You look a little rattled.”

“I am kinda rattled,” Michael admits. “But I’m fine; you didn’t need to come.”

“Standard procedure actually,” he says, “I try to come on the calls that need antaran interviews. It’s a little less intimidating for some antarans to talk to me than it is for them to talk to the sheriff or one of the deputies. This is the part where I usually explain my role as a cadet, but you already know that part.”

“Every nerdy detail,” Michael confirms with a grin, and Max seems to relax a bit at the teasing. 

“Did they hurt you?” he adds, fingers ghosting over the bruise on Michael’s cheek.

“No, that was one of the horses this morning; nothing to worry about.”

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Max asks, but Michael hears the urgent, underlying _Do I need to heal something big before the sheriff comes back._

“No, nothing else, and these are no big deal.”

“So you want to tell me what in the world happened?” Max asks. 

“Could I just wait until the warden gets here to talk, if that’s okay? Just tell it all once, and everything? He said he was on his way.”

“Of course, it’s your right to have your guardian present for any questioning or statements,” Max says, in what sounds like an official, auto-pilot statement. His tone softens back to normal as he adds, “But you know you’re not in trouble, right?”

“Max, _I locked two humans in a stable_ ,” he reminds. “Antarans can’t just pull shit like that without consequences. I’m surprised she hasn’t got me in cuffs already--or is that just because I’m your brother?”

“Well, it’s not like you just locked a couple of humans in a stable for the hell of it, right?” Max asks, noticeably avoiding the question of whether Michael’s getting special treatment due to their relation.

“Of course not!” Michael replies. “But they were trespassing and taking videos and stuff.”

“And you didn’t hurt them, did you?”

“No, I didn’t lay a finger on them. I swear. Just locked them in the stall back there.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about,” Max assures with his best golden-boy smile. “And here comes the warden now, I’m sure he and the sheriff are gonna agree with me.”

_God, I hope so._

Max calls into the barn to inform Sheriff Valenti of the warden’s arrival. She goes out to meet the warden at his truck. They talk for a while, and Michael assumes the warden is being given Rosa and Grant’s version of events. The warden remains carefully composed, as he always does in front of everyone else. Michael just hopes any anger simmering under the surface is directed at someone other than him. He disappears up to the house and returns to hand the sheriff a key, which Michael would guess goes to the padlock on the stall. The sheriff disappears into the barn again, as the warden comes up to greet Michael and Max.

“No need to look so worried, Guerin; you’re not the one in trouble,” the warden says. “They’ll be arrested for trespassing, and some other charges might follow, but it’ll do for now. We’ll work on a restraining order for the property to make sure they don’t show up and take you by surprise like that again.”

“That’s good,” Michael says, as the sheriff comes out leading Rosa and Grant --who are now handcuffed together -- out to the cruiser. 

“It’s not too late, Michael,” Rosa calls to him. “I know you’re scared, but, if you just tell her the truth, Sheriff Valenti can help you. We just want to help you!”

“That’s _enough,_ Ms. Ortecho,” the sheriff says as she nudges them into the back of the cruiser. 

“And she wonders why I didn’t want her to interview you when you came to work here,” the warden comments, shaking his head. “Do anything for a story that might get some attention for that little newsletter they inflict on the town once a week.”

The sheriff comes to join them once Rosa and Grant are stowed in the cruiser. “I do have just a few questions for you, Guerin,” she says as she walks over. “Is there somewhere private I could speak with him, Jesse?” she asks the warden.

“Sure,” he replies. “Y’all can go up to the main house or out to his place at the bunkhouse. Wherever Guerin’s comfortable,” he answers with a smile that’s sickeningly genuine coming from a man Michael knows to be so underhanded. 

“Does it really need to be private?” Michael asks, recalling the warden’s earlier order that he not to talk to the sheriff alone. 

“He mentioned he’d feel more comfortable if the warden were present,” Max adds. 

“Yeah,” Michael says. 

“That’s your right, of course,” the sheriff says, “but I assume you know the allegations that are being made by Mr. Green and Ms. Ortecho?”

“Yeah, they think somebody’s hurting me or something; they say they want to help, but I told them I don’t need help,” he says. “It’s a good placement. I like it here,” he adds. 

_Alex is here._

“Well, if you want me with you while you’re questioned, I’m happy to stay with you, Guerin,” the warden says with a congenial smile, “but I can tell you that you’ve got nothing to worry about speaking with the sheriff on your own,” he adds, like Michael just wants his protection, like he didn’t expressly forbid Michael from speaking with her alone not twenty minutes ago. “I can promise you that if you feel uncomfortable at any point, she’ll stop and you can come get me.”

“Exactly,” she confirms. “And what if Max stays with you instead?”

“Okay, sure.” Michael says. 

“Why don’t you just head into the kitchen table,” the warden offers. “I’ll be right out here, if you need anything.”

“Sounds perfect,” the sheriff says, and they usher Michael up toward the house. 

* * *

“I’m glad I got to meet you on your birthday under some better circumstances, Guerin,” the sheriff says as they let themselves into the house. “It seems like you’ve had quite a day.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies. 

“The sheriff will just get your account of things so that the report can be completed,” Max adds in the silence that follows. “Then we’ll be out of your hair, and you can get back to your day. Nothing to be worried about.”

They settle at the table. Max sits beside Michael, and, unlike the sheriff, he doesn’t pull out a notepad. He seems to be in brother mode rather than filling his role as cadet, and Michael appreciates the comradery. Still, he notes that the sheriff doesn’t echo Max’s assurance that there’s nothing to worry about. 

“I just want to be very clear here, Guerin,” she says somberly. “I am concerned with getting the truth. Nothing applies here regarding anything you may have been taught about speaking ill of humans or accusing humans of things--I need facts, that’s all. You don’t worry about trying to phrase things the right way or offending anybody. As long as you’re telling the truth, you’re free to tell it in your own words, in your own way, you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And, correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you might be more comfortable talking to Max about this than talking to me directly?”

“Y--yes ma’am,” because it’s true, but also because--fucked up as it may be--it’s easier to lie to Max. “But I can talk to you instead, if you’d rather, sheriff.”

“It’s okay,” Max says. “It’s my job, actually,” he reminds, scooting his chair back from the table just slightly, and Michael follows suit so that he can look at Max without having to turn his head to the side. “So, we’ll just talk,” Max tells him, “and I’ll ask some questions, but if there’s something the sheriff needs to follow up with, she will. But even if she asks the question, you can answer it to me.”

“I’m not _afraid_ , Max,” Michael says, his pride getting the better of him. “I mean, yeah, it’s more comfortable talking to you, but I can--”

“I know you’re not afraid,” Max replies, rolling his eyes. “I’m just giving you the standard instructions, okay? Do whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Go into as much detail as you want, start at the beginning, and just walk me through what happened,” Max bids.

“Well, it was just a normal day really,” Michael replies. “I did my morning chores and stuff, and one of the horses, Yuma--I think I told you about her and Zulu when we had lunch last week, didn’t I?--anyway, she does the thing horses do where they nudge you with their head, you know?”

“Vaguely,” Max confirms. “She nudged you this morning?”

“Yeah, I had some carrots for them, and I wasn’t paying attention, and she wanted me to give her another one so she tried to nudge me, but I turned at the same time and she kind of head-butted me,” Michael lies. “It’s dumb, and don’t get me wrong it didn’t feel great. But it was just a random little accident. That’s all. I get cuts and scrapes and bruises and stuff all the time. Between helping with the horses and odd jobs around the ranch. It’s not exactly a desk job, and there’s a first aid kit out in the barn if I need it. It’s no big thing.”

“That scar on your forehead looks pretty new,” Max says. “You told me what happened, but can you say it again for the sheriff to hear?”

“Yeah, sure, I got thrown by one of the horses, hit my head and it needed a couple of stitches.”

“You didn’t go to the clinic?” Max asks. 

“You know I hate the clinic,” Michaeal replies. “How many times did the Evanes have to drag me in there kicking and screaming when we were little?”

“I know,” Max says, “but the Sheriff doesn’t. Just trying to get her all the facts.”

“Right, yeah, sorry.”

“So you wanted to stitch it up here instead of the clinic?”

“Yeah. And, like I said, the first aid kit in the stable has anything and everything you could imagine. I had it bandaged up by the time the warden got home. He looked at it though, made sure I did it right, asked about it--made sure I didn’t want to go to the clinic.”

“So no one is keeping you from getting medical care?”

“No, nothing like that,” Michael assures. 

“Back to today. You had the issue with Yuma, and then what happened?”

“Did the rest of my morning chores. Had lunch. Did some odd jobs. Got Yuma and put her on a lunge line to take her out ‘cause we’re still trying to get her used to the saddle. I was putting her tack back up when I heard somebody come in the barn, which was weird, because I was supposed to be the only one here. The video probably has it all from there I guess--I came out and they were there with the camera. I recognized Rosa from the cafe, but I’d never seen Mr. Green before. They just caught me off guard and started asking all these questions and stuff. Going on and on about how I was proof of the system failing antarans and asking who hit me and--I dunno--it all seemed pretty clear they were trying to get a story out of me, but there’s not a story.”

“Mr. Grant did play part of the recording of the interaction,” the sheriff says. “You were certainly distressed to say the least. Especially when they started to point out your injuries.”

“Well, yeah, I was upset,” Michael affirms. “I mean, they scared the hell out of me, to be honest. They just showed up, out of nowhere, when I thought I was the only one on the ranch.” Michael says. “And after the threats I got when I was down in Orlando, I’ve been jumpier than I used to be,” he adds, hiding behind the official story again, embellishing to give him an excuse even though he never actually knew about the supposed threats until he came to Roswell. “Once my nerves got going I couldn’t really calm down. And I knew what they could do if they left with footage of me like that. I’ve seen all the ways they edited footage of us from the crash--and put it with clips from following the Evanses around after. They can string together clips and cook up all kinds of stories. I didn’t want that to happen, but I didn’t want to _hurt_ them. I’d _never_ hurt a human. So I was freaking out, but it was about what to do to stop anybody from making up a story where there isn’t one. That’s all.”

Silence grows in the moments after he finishes as the sheriff jots down some notes. She looks to Max and nods, and apparently it’s a signal of some sort between them because Max says, “Okay, Michael, we’re just going to go through some standard questions, okay? Things we ask on every call where there are allegations of antaran abuse. Nothing to be worried about. You just have to be truthful.”

“Yeah, okay, sure.”

“You understand that physical punishment is not permitted as part of any AWP placement?”

“Yeah, I understand that.”

_I understand that it’s not permitted, but we all know it happens anyway._

“You understand that by physical punishment, I’m talking about any forceful physical contact of any kind with any part of your body, whether a human uses their own body to apply that force or an object like a belt? And you understand that forceful contact like that is considered physical punishment even if it doesn’t leave a visible mark? So, for instance, even if someone just shoved or shook you? Does that definition make sense? I’m happy to explain it another way.”

Unlike the human who visited Michael in the hospital, even though Max is clearly working off of a script, he’s memorized it. He speaks with a calm, reassuring clarity. Even as he offers to explain, and says things in a way clearly meant to be understood by antarans of all intellects, it isn’t patronizing; it’s genuine. Michael would bet just about anything that Max is this earnest with every antaran he asks these questions to, not just his brother. 

_He’s damn good at his job. There’s no doubt about that._ Michael realizes. 

And in another life--one where the abuse Max is outlining really is as uncommon as they seem to think; one where Michael hadn’t spent years waiting to be near his siblings again; one where he didn’t have Alex--Michael could see himself trusting Max enough to reveal his maltreatment. But that life doesn’t exist. All Michael has is this one. And Max can’t ever know the truth.

“That definition makes sense,” Michael confirms. “But I haven’t ever had physical punishments like that.”

“Good,” Max says with a smile. “Has anyone ever _threatened_ those kinds of punishments? Even if it was just a gesture and not words said out loud?”

“No.”

“Have you ever experienced _any_ unwanted physical contact of _any_ kind while you were at this placement--even if it wasn’t meant to be a punishment? For example, even if there was a hug you weren’t comfortable with--even if you weren’t sure how to comment on it?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Have you ever been in fear for your safety while you’ve been at this placement?”

“Just today--when they showed up in the barn like that,” Michael answers. “I’d never really thought about how anybody could just show up whenever I'm here on my own. Kind of freaked me out.”

“So are you worried about your safety in the future?”

“No, the warden said he was gonna ask for a restraining order and stuff, so that should take care of it, right?”

“So you feel safe here, even in light of today’s events?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, that’s great. Just a few more questions like this, okay? To make sure we’re covering everything.”

“Sure, keep ‘em coming,” Michael says with a shrug. 

“Abuse can come in other forms besides the forceful contact we talked about earlier. Sometimes it’s in the form of neglect. AWP placements are required to provide housing of a certain standard, no matter what, meaning that even as a punishment certain requirements can’t be taken away. Are you familiar with the requirements for AWP on-site housing?”

“Yeah,” Michael says. 

“Just to be sure, could you list them off? Or would you prefer that I do it?”

“Oh, well, um, I think it’s--access to basic kitchen amenities--enough that you can fix a warm meal? I’ve got that. And access to basic food items that provide sufficient nutrition, got that too. Indoor bathroom amenities--sink, toilet, and shower, got that. My own bed with a mattress and everything. Laundry stuff--got that; there’s a washing machine. Basic furnishings--chair, table, lights, dishes, towels, and sheets and stuff. I’ve got all that. Did I leave anything out?”

“Can you confirm the shower has the option of hot water?” Max asks.

“Oh, yeah, it’s good. One of those at-the-source tankless kinds so it never runs out.” 

“And can you confirm that there is at least one window?” 

“Oh, yeah, there’s--” Michael counts mentally. “Six altogether.”

“Great.”

For the first time, Michael considers that if Max had seen the bunkhouse back when he’d asked for a “tour” on their birthday, he wouldn’t have been as shocked as Michael expected. If he knows to ask all these questions, he’s seen--or at least knows about--the absolute shithole accomodations some AWP guardians try to get away with.

“Y’all can come see it if you want,” Michael offers. “I bet Isobel already told you that she wants to decorate it better,” Michael adds with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. “But I kinda like the bachelor pad vibe.”

“We don’t have to see it,” Max replies, “but we’re happy to do the inspection if you’d like.”

“Nah, I’m good if y’all’re good to take my word on it.”

“And so now that we’ve talked about your housing, can you confirm that you have access to all those at all times?” Max continues.

“Yep.”

“Has anyone ever taken away or even threatened to take away your access to those things?”

“Nope.”

“You understand that our role here, as law enforcement, is to keep you safe and to make sure that you feel safe in your placement?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re here to help, and that help comes in a lot of forms. We don’t just arrest people or take Antarans out of placements. We can help you find ways to talk to your guardian about anything that has occured during this placement that makes you feel uncomfortable or unsafe in _any_ way, no matter how small.” 

“I understand all that,” Michael assures, “but I don’t need that kind of help. Honest.”

Michael smiles in spite of himself because, yeah, maybe Max’s version of this isn’t perfect--hell, Michael himself is lying his ass off even in the face of all the assistance being offered--but this is a hell of a lot better than the farce of an interview the human at the clinic performed after Michael’s surgery. 

“Glad to hear it,” Max replies.

“You’re pretty good at this, cadet,” Michael comments. “No wonder they keep promoting you.”

Max rolls his eyes at the compliment, but the sheriff says, “Max has spent a great deal of time tailoring the questions and topics of these interviews. We’ve seen some great results. It’s exceptional.”

“Thanks, sheriff,” Max mumbles, blushing a bit before clearing his throat and saying, “anything else you want to tell us about today?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“Well, I think we’ve got what we need,” Sheriff Valenti says, rising from the table. “We’d better get back to the station and get everything processed.”

* * *

Michael stands beside the warden in the driveway as the cruiser pulls away. He hardly dares to breathe, waiting for the moment the warden drops his performance and resumes his usual surly demeanor. 

_Please don’t be mad at me. I know it was paperwork but what the hell else was I supposed to do. Please don’t be mad. Please._

“I’ll reserve full judgment until I get the official report,” he says finally, turning to face Michael. Michael turns to make eye contact, so the warden won’t grab his face and make him. “But it seems you showed some exemplary loyalty today. You thought quickly; you handled it all well.”

“Th--thank you, sir.”

“Decide which horse you’d like to take out of the usual rotation and make a permanent addition to the stables,” the warden instructs. “Once I’ve reviewed the report for today and confirmed everything was handled appropriately, let me know and I’ll update Mr. Hubbard.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Might like to steer clear of Alex for a couple days,” the warden ads with a sneer. “Bet he won’t take very kindly to you getting one of his friends arrested.”

“Yes, sir,” Michael murmurs, doing his best to look intimidated by the statement--it doesn’t take much effort to pull on the very real hope that Alex won’t be too upset. 

_Is he really even friends with Rosa? Or does he just know her from school? Fuck. No, it’ll be fine. He’ll understand I didn’t have much choice. He knows it takes a lot to keep this secret._

The warden heads back up to the house, leaving Michael in the stable yard trying to process the warden’s direction that he should pick the horse he wants to keep. 

Unbidden, the chilling speech the warden gave Michael when he was in the clinic replays in his memory. _In my household, loyalty is rewarded...disloyalty—toward me or either of my sons— in any form, any form at all will absolutely. not. be. tolerated._

He shudders, forcing himself to push away the memory. 

_He doesn’t know. Today was a win to me; I showed my loyalty again. He told me to avoid Alex, so he’s still buying our act. We’re safe. We’re okay. He doesn’t know._

Michael takes a few moments more to gather himself, and then heads back into the barn to get back to work.

  
  
  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a disclaimer, I know pretty much nothing about computer science, hacking, cybersecurity, etc. Thus it's all very hand-wavy, presto-chango, plot-serving for this fic. :) Thanks for understanding!

Michael isn’t surprised that Max and Isobel arrange a sibling lunch as soon after the incident with Rosa as they can manage, which is just a couple of days. He  _ is  _ surprised that they still go to the Crashdown, given that he got one of the owner’s daughters arrested. Isobel and Noah (who’s become their regular chaperone, given the warden and sheriff’s busier schedules) pick Michael up, and despite Michael’s protests, assure him that they’re not giving up their regular lunch spot. 

“I just don’t want to cause trouble,” Michael continues to worry as they head inside. “Aren’t you always telling me to avoid trouble? Let’s just get it to go and have a picnic somewhere or something.”

“Michael, you have  _ absolutely nothing  _ to be ashamed of,” Isobel insists and Noah nods his head in solidarity. 

“I’m not ashamed,” Michael lies. “I’m cautious though. You really think her dad is just gonna welcome me with open arms and send over a milkshake after I--”

“He’s a  _ good man _ . You know that. Now, stop it.”

Max waves from their usual booth in the back as they come in. Noah diverts to a barstool at the counter to give them some privacy for lunch. Michael glances around, grateful to see there’s a young guy he doesn’t recognize waiting tables and not Rosa. 

_ Shit--it’s only been two days--she’s not still in jail is she?  _

“Hey,” Max greets with a smile as they join him at the table. “The special today is those pulled pork tortas you like so much, so it was a good day to come,” he tells Michael. 

“You sure about that?” Michael wonders as he spots Mr. Ortecho making a beeline for their table. 

“I told you; he’s not upset,” Max says, exasperated. 

“Sure he’s not,” Michael mutters, rising to his feet, preparing his offer to leave without any fuss before shit hits the fan. 

“Oh, no need to get up,” Mr. Ortecho says, “Sit, sit. I just wanted to talk to you a moment, if that’s okay?”

“I--uh--yeah--I mean--yes, sir, that’s...fine,” Michael replies, returning to his seat. 

Mr. Ortecho pulls a spare chair over so he can sit at the end of the table. “I just wanted to clear the air,” he says. “Max checked in with me about you three coming in here, and I appreciate you doing that. I wouldn’t want what happened with Rosa to rob you of your favorite lunch spot.”

“I just--didn’t want to cause a problem or anything,” Michael replies once he manages to find his voice. “I’m sorry about--”

“No, there’s no need to apologize,” Mr. Ortecho interrupts. “You didn’t do anything wrong, and Rosa broke the law. There’s nothing for you to be sorry for. I just hope you understand that--even though she was wrong to go about it that way--she had good intentions. She just gets carried away sometimes; she’s a very passionate young woman. It doesn’t excuse her choice to ignore the law and ambush you like that, but she--”

“She thought she was rescuing me from something awful,” Michael interjects, eager to stop this absurd apology that he doesn’t want anyway. “I know that. I wish--I wish there’d been something else to do about it, but I--didn’t know how else to deal with it.”

“I think it was an important wake-up call for her,” Mr. Ortecho replies, “and hopefully she’ll listen to me now when I tell her that Grant Green doesn’t care how much trouble he drags her into. But I don’t want to take up anymore of your lunch break, you three enjoy, okay? You’re all welcome here, anytime.”

“Thanks,” they reply in almost-unison, as Mr. Ortecho returns the spare chair to its table and disappears back into the kitchen. 

“Told you,” Max says simply as Michael stares after Mr. Ortecho in amazement. “He’s a good man, Michael.”

“I know,” Michael replies defensively, “but even good men have shitty reactions to their daughters getting arrested, don’t they, cadet?”

“Sometimes,” Max agrees, “but not Mr. Ortecho.”

“Rosa’s not in too much trouble, is she?” Michael wonders. “She’s out of jail and everything right?”

“Yeah, she was only in the holding cell maybe an hour before he came to pick her up. She’ll probably get community service or maybe probation, but nothing to worry about.” 

“That’s good.”

“I did want to talk to you a little more about what happened,” Max says, assuming his super serious mom-face. 

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Michael mutters, rolling his eyes. “ _ What _ ?”

“We just--want to check in that it’s not too rough of a job for you,” Isobel says. 

“You know, you two worrying about me is part of what gave Rosa the idea to come rescue me in the first place,” he tells them. “I’m a  _ cowboy _ , dammit. It’s just how things go. Of  _ course  _ I’m gonna get thrown by some horses and banged up here and there, but I love the job. It’s a hell of a lot better than getting the same little bumps and bruises from a dumb, boring warehouse job or something. Y’all worry too much,” he rants. “How is it any different than Max working a job where he might get shot at or you working one at an organization that gets its fair share of bomb threats from xenophobic assholes?”

“You’re happy getting your ass kicked by horses all the time, fine!” Isobel snaps back. “No need to bite our heads off about it.”

“I just--I don’t want to lose this placement, okay?” Michael says. 

_ I don’t want to lose Alex.  _

“Okay,” Max says. “We just wanted to be sure.”

“I’m not the one we should be worrying about,” Michael says. “I still want to know more about what’s going on with your--” he pauses to think of a euphemism “--nightmares, Isobel. Have you had anymore?”

“No, and I would have told you if I did,” she replies. “I told you before; you’re back in the loop.”

“Have you kept track of how often you have them?” Michael wonders. “Tried to find a pattern or anything?”

“Yes, but there doesn’t seem to be anything we can pinpoint,” she replies, huffing as she crosses her arms. “You really don’t have to worry about it. I’m sure it’s just a weird--quirk or something. It’s not a big deal,” she concludes, clearly eager to dismiss the topic.

“It’s a  _ very  _ big deal. It has always been a big deal,” Michael replies. “Don’t try to downplay it.”

“Look, I’ve learned to live with my  _ nightmares _ just like you’ve learned to live with your  _ temper tantrums _ ,” she replies, using their old excuse for why things got trashed when Michael lost control. “I don’t tell you how to handle yours, do I?”

“Mine are a lot less frequent,” Michael replies. “Yours just keep coming and--”

“Okay, enough,” Max cuts in. “This isn’t the time or the place to argue about this. It’s just--it is what it is, Michael. We manage it. You can help us manage it, now you’re here, but don’t come in acting like we haven’t tried to--”

“Have you at  _ least _ researched what might be causing them to continue even after all these years? Something to treat the disease and not just manage the symptom.”

“I am not  _ diseased _ ,” Isobel retorts, and clearly Michael has struck a nerve if the glare she shoots across the table is any indication. 

“Disease. Disorder. Illness. Call it whatever you want,” Michael says, “but there’s an underlying problem, and  _ maybe  _ if we figure out what that is, we can get you some real relief. You don’t want nightmares forever, do you?” 

She looks almost guilty when she replies, “I don’t know.”

“What?” he asks, honestly flabbergasted. 

“Here, I almost forgot. There’s a song I wanted you to hear. I think you’ll like it,” she says, pulling a small mp3 player from her purse, she hands one earbud to Michael and puts the other in her own ear. 

It’s ingenious really, a perfect excuse for why they’d be sitting in silence, why Max would be quiet, too, letting them listen to “the song.”

_ What if it’s tied to my power?  _ Isobel wonders through their telepathic connection, and their surroundings fade to the background, leaving Isobel in sharp focus against blurs of colors as her voice comes through clearly over the muffled near-silence of the world around them.  _ What if I stop the blackouts and it stops my powers, too? I don’t want to risk that.  _

_ But what if it gets you caught?  _ Michael counters.  _ It could get you killed or worse if you’re found by the wrong person or God forbid you start using your powers when you’re blacked out and don’t know any better. There’s only so much you can cover up. _

_ It’s my choice to make _ , Isobel replies.  _ I don’t want to give up my powers. They’re too important for too many reasons. I won’t risk it. I can’t. Would you ask Max to give up his power? Would you give up yours? Maybe we can’t use them freely, but they’re our greatest possible armor in a human-controlled world. I couldn’t handle feeling totally powerless. I just couldn’t. _

Michael sighs, pulling the earbud out of his ear and handing it back to Isobel. “I don’t think I like that song as much as you thought I would,” he says.

“Yeah, I’m not a fan of it either,” Max adds with a frown. “But it’s Isobel’s playlist,” he says with a shrug.

“Guess it’s hard to argue with that,” Michael replies.

But that doesn't mean Michael can just stop worrying about it. Knowledge is power; whether it scares Isobel or not. Michael will just have to keep gathering as much information as he can, so that if the shit hits the fan again maybe they’ll be a little more prepared. 

* * *

Michael hears the back door of the house slam, and he winces. Usually it means someone had a shit day and they’re en route to vent frustration on him. 

“Guerin!” Alex shouts angrily across the barnyard, in the tone that has come to bring dread crashing down on Michael every time. 

He’d thought acting out these scenes with Alex would get easier with time, but in all honesty it just gets harder. He doesn’t really understand why--isn’t sure he wants to. He steels himself for the act, turning to face Alex. 

“Yes, Alex?” he calls back, stomach turning at the phrase, but he ignores it.

“You’ve been dodging me for two days,” Alex accuses, stalking toward him across the yard as the warden watches from his place at the back patio table; his amused smile is visible even from this distance. He catches Michael’s gaze on him, and shrugs in a nonchalant way Michael interprets as “I told you to steer clear of him,” as if Michael’s done anything at all to draw Alex’s attention. Michael pulls his gaze back to Alex as he comes within arms reach, readying to react to whatever move Alex makes.

“I want to have a little  _ chat _ with you,” Alex declares, reaching for Michael’s hair. 

“I haven’t been dodging,” Michael protests, as he fakes a wince and gets his hands in place over Alex’s to control the move. “I just--”

“Shut up,” Alex orders, cutting off the protest, and leading just enough with his hand to nudge Michael back toward the barn. 

“I’m going; you can stop--”

“I said  _ shut up _ , Guerin. How fucking hard of an order is that to understand?” he releases Michael’s hair and gives him a shove, barely making contact but Michael plays his part and flails into the barn anyway, righting himself as soon as they’re in the aisle and out of view. 

“Hey,” Alex says with a grim smile. “Sorry.”

Michael shrugs. “I think your Dad expected it, after all the trouble the other day.”

“Oh, he definitely did,” Alex confirms with a sigh. “He’s been goading me into this all day, so I figured I’d go ahead and make a scene so he’ll leave it alone.”

“He--uh--said that you’re friends with Rosa,” Michael adds, “are you really? I mean--I remember you talked to her some that day we were all at crashdown for our birthday, but--”

“I’m not mad at you,” Alex interjects. “Not at all. Yeah, I’m friends with Rosa--well, she’s more a friend of a friend, but I know her. We all hang out together sometimes. It doesn’t change the fact that she ambushed you and put you in an impossible situation.”

Michael nods, processing the information. “Max said she shouldn’t be in too much trouble. I asked when we all went to lunch today.”

“It must’ve been hell lying to him like that. I’m  _ so  _ sorry, Guerin. It’s--”

“I’m fine,” Michael says firmly. “It’s no big deal.”

“I wanted to come check on you sooner, but I’d just been the night before,” Alex goes on. “And I was worried dad might be on high alert for a little while afterwards, but I think--is it clingy to get you a phone? Just something so we can touch base without having to--”

“You could do that? Just get me a phone without--people knowing? Max and Isobel said it more or less took an act of God to get their cell phones, and they never could swing getting one for me.”

“Well--I’m not exactly getting you a GRACE-approved option,” Alex says. “It’d just be something cheap, that we could put some minutes on for quick calls or texts or something. You can get those without contracts or anything. We’d still need to be careful how much we used it, but we could check in and make plans without risking quite so much.”

Michael can’t hold back his excitement at the prospect. “No, that’s not clingy; that would be  _ amazing _ !”

“Okay, great. I’ll work on that this week, but--uh--see you later tonight?” he asks hopefully.

It always makes Michael’s heart flutter just a bit when Alex asks permission to come--like he’s asking Michael out on a first date every time, nervous Michael might decline. 

“Yeah,” Michael agrees. “Can’t wait.”

Alex pecks a quick kiss to his cheek as he goes. Michael takes a few seconds to rub some dirt on his jeans, shirt, and face to make it seem like he took more tumbles than he did, and musses up his hair, just in case the warden’s still watching outside. Then he sets to work bringing the horses in for the night and letting his mind wander just a bit to daydream about what Alex has in mind. 

* * *

Michael finishes up in time to watch the sunset from the comfort of his hammock, swaying gently as he admires the artful way the sky transforms into colors spectacular enough to be a painting. 

“Guerin?” Alex says, breaking into Michael’s moment of tranquility. 

For a moment, Michael thinks he may be dreaming, because it’s not the usual harsh or condescending tone that initiates daylight interactions ever since they’ve started the ruse of Alex being a “real” Manes man; it’s the soft, gentle tone now generally reserved for stolen nights in the relative safety of the bunkhouse.

“Hey,” Michael says, sitting up in the hammock, swinging his legs to one side. “Need something?”

“No, I’ve got a surprise for you,” Alex replies, and Michael realizes his face is alight with mischief and excitement. “Can I sit?” he wonders, gesturing to the hammock.

Michael glances nervously in the direction of the main house, even though you can’t actually see it from here. 

“It’s--uh--kinda early isn’t it?” he asks.

“You didn’t hear the truck leave?” Alex asks. “Dad and Flint aren’t here. They got called back to camp for a security breach. We’ve got the place all to ourselves,” he says, leaning down for a lingering kiss.

“A security breach?” Michael repeats as they pull away.

“Nothing to worry about,” Alex replies, moving slowly to join Michael sitting in the hammock; he leans against Michael to steady himself, reaching one arm to wrap around Michael and using his free hand to thread his fingers through Michael’s. “It’ll resolve itself in a couple hours--22:43, actually.”

“You sound  _ very  _ confident about that timeline,” Michael comments.

“Oh, I am,” Alex confirms with a huff of giddy laughter. 

Michael doesn’t want to dislodge Alex from where he’s got his head resting on Michael’s shoulder now, but he wishes he could get a better look at Alex’s face; there’s a key fact he’s missing here. Something has Alex in this amazing mood--lighter than he’s been in weeks; Michael just isn’t sure  _ what _ .

“Whenever I’ve mentioned that you could visit me when they get called away, you’ve always said it’s too risky to assume they’ll be gone any particular amount of time,” Michael reminds. “Because they get called back all the time, but there’s no way to know if it’s for five minutes or five hours--and no way to know if both of them will stay or one may come home,” he recounts.

“Well, cybersecurity is a pretty big deal,” Alex says, “and an active threat will require both of them there--protocol and all. If they can’t keep the hackers out, Dad has to make the call to sever all the hardwire connections and shut the system down. Flint is the one who’s supposed to help oversee it. It’s all in the camp’s SOP for cyberattacks.”

“Oh, it is, huh? And since when do  _ you  _ know the SOP for cyberattacks?”

“Since I realized that if I could make some reliable diversions, we could treat ourselves,” Alex replies, leaning over for another kiss, tongue sweeping into Michael’s mouth, sucking at Michael’s bottom lip as he pulls away. 

“Wait,” Michael says breathlessly, “are you telling me that you arranged a  _ cyberattack _ on the camp security system?!”

Alex grins impishly and shrugs. “It’s not a  _ real  _ attack, obviously, just enough to keep them on their toes and make them sweat for a little while.”

“How the  _ hell  _ did you--”

“You know computer science is my best class,” Alex reminds modestly. 

“Yeah, but getting high grades in a high school computer class is not the same as  _ hacking  _ GRACE-US. Holy shit, you can really do that? That’s  _ amazing _ , Alex!” 

Michael is the first to admit his computer skills are sorely lacking--especially since he hasn’t so much as laid a finger on a computer since he was about 14--but this still seems like the level of competency that should be well beyond a high school senior. Alex grins, bravado giving way to a hint of shyness at the praise. 

“I mean I knew you were a genius and all, but--”

“Oh, please, I’m not a genius,” Alex replies, rolling his eyes, even without seeing his face. “It just--I dunno--makes sense to me. Like you say about physics stuff I never can wrap my head around.”

“You just  _ guaranteed _ us  _ hours  _ together,” Michael says, “and now all I can think about is hearing how you’ve been imagining we’d spend all this time?” 

Blush rises in Alex’s face at the question, and Michael pecks a kiss on his flushed cheek. 

“C’mon, whatever it is, tell me? I’m dying here.”

“I--uh--well, I had a plan, but, I’m kinda worried now that it’s too--I dunno--sappy romantic or something,” he admits.

“And what makes you think I am opposed to sappy and romantic things?” Michael wonders. “If you’re into it, I’m into it.”

“I don’t want you doing this just because--”

“If I don’t like the idea, I’ll tell you,” Michael assures, “but I  _ highly _ doubt you suggest anything I’m not into trying. I’m totally down to swap the macho cowboy swagger for a hopeless romantic vibe if you wanna.”

“Yeah?”

“Hell yeah. It’ll be fun to change things up. What’d you have in mind?”

“I just thought you should get a night to relax, like r _ eally  _ relax,” Alex says, “and I thought if I could get them out of the house, we could make good use of it while they’re gone. Be a little more comfortable and have more to work with and stuff.”

“In the  _ house _ ?” Michel repeats; he hears the slight tremor in his voice at the suggestion, and shame washes over him at how pathetic he sounds to be scared by the simple thought of entering a human’s house without permission, even if it is the Manes house. “I just mean--I know the bunkhouse isn’t the best,” he counters, trying to sound nonchalant, “but it’s not so bad, is it? We--”

“I  _ promise  _ you, they aren’t coming back for  _ hours _ ,” Alex says. “The window in the bathroom faces the driveway, so we’ll see the headlights if they come up--it’ll give you time to run if you had to, but I  _ swear  _ you won’t. I wouldn’t risk it if I wasn't  _ sure _ . But if you don’t want to risk it, that’s okay; we can make a night of it in the bunkhouse instead,” Alex offers.

Michael takes a breath, mentally hushing the voice in his mind that screams it’s not worth the risk. Because even if it is just the hormones talking, he  _ wants  _ this. He wants to see what Alex has been thinking about all this time--what he wants for them that’s worth expending so much effort to get. It’s more than a little flattering, to say the least, and it’s sexy as fuck. It’s hard to imagine Alex implementing any plan he didn’t truly believe Michael would enjoy. 

“No, I trust you,” Michael replies, voice thankfully more steady than he feels. “Plus, I wanna see exactly what you had planned.”

* * *

“So, you wanna give me a massage?” Michael repeats once Alex lays out the first phase of this night he has planned as they make their way up to the house and into his bedroom. “That seems kinda one-sided.”

“Oh, yeah, no way I’d enjoy rubbing oil all over your chiseled pecs while admiring the view of every last inch of you,” Alex replies, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, no pressure or anything, but I really do want to.” Michael’s hesitation must show in his face because Alex quickly concludes, “You’re not into it; that’s fine, Guerin. It really is. I--”

“Well, it’s just kinda--before we get too far into this--or anything really, I--uh--didn’t think you were coming until later, so I ate a quick bite and went out to watch the sunset, but didn’t shower or anything yet, and I’m kinda sweaty and dusty and gross at the moment,” he explains bashfully. “So I’m not  _ against  _ the idea, just--ya know--full disclosure and all.”

Alex smiles. “Well, since showering together was the next phase of my plan, maybe we can just rearrange the timeline?” he suggests.

“So the main event of this evening is trying out shower sex?”

“Yeah, if you want?” 

“That sounds hot as hell,” Michael says, thoroughly excited now that he isn’t distracted by worrying just how much he may still smell like a barn. 

He doesn’t remember much about Alex’s bathroom from his brief visit all those months ago when he helped Alex sell his came-home-sick-from-school story, but the shower  _ has  _ to be better than the small stall shower in the bunkhouse. Michael can’t imagine any attempt at shower sex out there that didn’t end in somebody taking an accidental elbow to the crotch or something else just as equally painful and unsexy. Not to mention that--while it’s nice enough--it’s also bare bones--nothing like the bathrooms in every human house he’s been in. 

He’s entirely unprepared for just how  _ magnificent  _ Alex’s bathroom is though, now that he has the time to take it all in. It’s tiled in white with a black overlay. There’s a large glass steam shower in one corner and beside it is a modern take on a clawfoot tub. Gleaming silver fixtures adorn everything, and Alex has even lit a row of pillar candles sitting in the windowsill of the window running high and narrow down the full length of the room.

“Holy shit,” Michael exclaims, unable to contain himself. “This is  _ insane _ !”

“Fucked up perks of being the warden’s kid,” Alex replies with a bit of a grimace. “We’re top of the list when they need someplace to train AWP candidates for skilled labor positions.”

_ Yikes _ .

Michael realizes now that must be why the rest of the house struck him so intensely as a scene from a catalog. If the warden has a camp full of antarans at his disposal for remodels, it’s a wonder he doesn’t constantly have a project going. 

“It’s tapered off some, the last couple of years,” Alex says, as though he’s followed Michael’s train of thought. “Dad says he doesn’t like having so many antarans come through the house.” 

Judging from the look on Alex’s face, Alex doesn’t buy his dad’s generic explanation for slowing down renovation projects. There’s more to be said about it, but Michael doesn’t want to waste this time Alex has made for them by lingering on terrible thoughts of the warden. 

“I still can’t believe you hacked GRACE just to fuck in the shower,” Michael says, stepping back into Alex’s space. Alex hops up to sit on the countertop, which makes him only slightly shorter than Michael. “Who knew the guy afraid to ride horses could be such a badass?” he teases. “Have I been a bad influence?” 

“Oh, definitely,” Alex replies with a fond grin, and he grabs Michael’s belt buckle to pull him in closer for a kiss. 

He kisses hungrily, hands framing both sides of Michael’s face. The angle is new but great, and Michael instantly decides he’ll have to pick Alex up and put him on the kitchen counter in the bunkhouse more often now the idea has been sown in his mind. Alex wraps his arms around Michael, pressing his body up so their chests are flush together, despite Michael’s earlier disclaimer of being gross and smelling like a barn. Alex’s hands roam up and down Michael’s back, and Michael grips at Alex’s hips on the counter, dipping his hands just below the waist of his jeans. Michael fucks his tongue into Alex’s mouth, matching the eager tone Alex is setting; it earns him a moan from Alex. Michael gets the feeling that Alex really has been planning and imagining this for a while now. It’s a flattering thought, and it goes right to his head. 

Michael runs his hands through Alex’s hair, tugging just a bit to hear the hum of pleasure it gets from Alex. He runs his hands up Alex’s back and then back down until he reaches the hem of his shirt, tugging it up and off, giving them both a few moments to catch their breath. Michael takes a single step back and pulls at his flannel, undoing all the buttons with one hard tug.

“ _ Fuck,  _ that’s hot,” Alex comments, practially drooling, which is exactly the reaction that Michael was hoping for. 

“Yeah?” Michael wonders, shrugging his shirt the rest of the way off, and Alex reaches for him to slate their bodies back together, skin to skin. Damn Michael will never get tired of this feeling. “You’re a fan of me ripping my clothes off for you?” he wonders, sliding his hand down to lift Alex up off the counter just a bit to squeeze Alex’s ass, before lifting him entirely up. Alex takes the cue, wrapping his legs around Michael, and Michael turns them away from the counter. He presses Alex back against the cool outer glass of the shower, and Alex shivers. Alex leans in close, and his breath on Michael’s ear sends a goosebumps down Michael’s neck. 

“I am  _ definitely  _ a fan of you ripping your clothes off for me,” he confirms, voice low and sultry. “ _ But, _ ” he goes on, “you usually  _ also _ rip off every button on your shirt when you try,” he teases, robbing a bit of Michael’s high. 

It’s entirely true; and maybe Michael has been practicing how to get his shirt off with a sexy tug that doesn’t fuck up the shirt ever since he watched that one episode of Friends, but hell if Michael is admitting that to Alex, especially not when he just pulled off the suave move of carrying Alex across the room to the shower. 

Instead he reminds, “That was  _ one  _ time!”

“Yeah, and  _ one time  _ of having to sew every one of the buttons back onto your shirt for you was plenty!”

“I  _ told  _ you I’d fix it myself, and you wouldn’t  _ let  _ me.”

“You stabbed yourself with the needle  _ five times  _ before you ever even managed to get the first button back on,” Alex reminds, “and I’ve gotten way too attached to these hands to let you mangle them over a dumb shirt,” he adds, reaching down to cover Michael’s hands with him own for a moment, and the planting a quick kiss to the tender skin at the base of Michael’s neck. “I’ll get the shower going,” he offers unwrapping his legs from Michael, and Michael helps him regain his feet. 

While Alex gets the water running, Michael takes the opportunity to shed his dusty jeans. He hesitates for only a moment before discarding his boxers, too. When Alex steps back toward him once he has the shower water running, his eyes sweep over Michael admiringly, and he  _ licks his lips _ in that way that drives Michael  _ insane _ . Like if he had the time he’d run his tongue over every inch of Michael--and Michael realizes that, while that might not be the exact plan for the evening, Alex has, in fact, gone to amazing lengths to ensure he has a night to take his time with Michael. And damn if Michael can feel anything other than desired as hell right now.

_ No, not just desired,  _ he mentally corrects,  _ fucking cherished. _

_ Loved?  _ He wonders fleetingly, but he can’t dwell on any of it for too long because Alex is shucking off his pants and underwear, too, stepping back into the warm spray of the shower, and it might be the hottest thing Michael has ever witnessed. He surges back into the moment, joining Alex under the warm spray, laughing just a little at just how much of a romantic comedy type of moment this all is. He brings his lips to Alex’s, kissing away the warm water and then chasing droplets down Alex’s neck. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Alex mutters, shuddering just a bit under Michael’s touch before protesting, “Nope, nope, not distracting me from the task at hand.”

“What?”

“The  _ showering  _ part of the shower,” Alex reminds. 

“Oh, yeah, that,” Michael says, suddenly a little worried that maybe Alex has been polite this whole time to ignore how filthy and disgusting he is from work.

“Just because--well, like I said, I kinda wanted to just take our time? Let me take care of you for a little while?” Alex says. “I get the feeling it’s been too long since you let somebody.”

_ Been too long since anybody wanted to… _

Maybe that’s not a fair thought. Isobel and Max do their best--but it’s nothing like  _ this.  _ And he can’t let his guard down with them. But Alex  _ sees  _ Michael, and Michael trusts him enough to let go. Maybe it’s just another in a long list of suicidally idiotic choices, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever regret giving Alex his trust. 

“No sure anybody’s ever taken care quite like this,” Michael admits, brushing Alex’s wet hair off his forehead and out of his eyes. “I’ll--uh--just follow your lead? Tell me what you had in mind? What was it you wanted me to do?”

Doubt clouds Alex’s bright gaze, and he tenses just a bit. 

“Sure, but--I don’t want to just  _ dictate  _ everything to you. If you’d rather me follow your lead, that’s okay, too. I don’t  _ expect  _ you to do anything. We can just--”

“Jesus  _ Christ,  _ Alex,” Michael mutters, letting his head sag down to rest his forehead on Alex’s shoulder for a moment. “Do we really have to do this  _ every  _ time?” 

“Yes, we do!” Alex replies, indignant. 

Michael lifts his head back up. He takes a step back, realizing too late that it puts him and Alex on separate sides of the shower’s stream, which is more of a separation than he intended. 

_ Damn this shower really is huge... _

“It’s  _ important _ that you feel  _ safe _ ,” Alex goes on with nothing but earnest concern in his tone. 

“Well, maybe I just feel  _ annoyed _ !” Michael retorts, but the look of hurt on Alex’s face has him amending the outburst to the more truthful answer, stepping back through the water to be closer to Alex and admit quietly, “Or maybe it just makes me feel like you never believe me--like you think I’m just some moronic antaran who couldn’t  _ possibly  _ know what I really want unless a  _ human  _ explains it to me every time.”

Alex’s mouth falls open, aghast, and he immediately starts shaking his head. 

“Michael, no--god, no,” Alex replies, reaching to ghost his hand over Michael’s shoulder, coming to rest on Michael’s chest, over his heart. “You know that’s not true, don’t you?” 

“I didn’t say it was  _ true _ , just that it makes me  _ feel  _ like it sometimes,” Michael mutters, wrapping his arms around Alex’s waist to pull him closer, unable to quite meet Alex’s eyes and watching the water droplets collecting along Alex’s shoulder instead. “I know it’s important to you--the whole consent thing; it’s fine if we talk about it every time,” he backtracks. “I’m being a jerk. You’re trying to be a gentleman about all of it, and I--”

“You’re  _ not  _ a jerk,” Alex assures. “I should have been more clear that when I ask you, it’s not because I think you can’t make your own choices--it’s just because _ I _ need to hear it. It’s not  _ you _ ; it’s  _ me _ .”

“I know that--logically. I really do. But--can we just--can we talk about it now, for a second, and--and be clear,  _ crystal  _ clear that I know that you’re a human and I’m antaran and you’re worried I’m gonna think that I  _ have  _ to do stuff because you have the right to demand it and all of that--and the fact that you even care to stop and worry about that is one of the things that makes you so awesome, but I just--I need you to  _ trust  _ me when I say that I trust  _ you _ . Okay? I  _ know _ that I don’t owe you anything; I  _ know  _ that I can tell you anything; I _ know _ that I can say stop--or pause for a second--or slow down-- and you’ll do it the minute I ask you to; I  _ know _ you want me to get as much out of this as you are. I know  _ all  _ of that not because you’ve told me so many times now but because I know  _ you _ , Alex, and  _ I trust you. _ ”

“Michael, I just  _ have  _ to be sure that--”

“I know. And I hope you know all the stuff you remind me of works both ways, you know? So I mean--if you  _ really _ need to hear me say it, that’s fine; and if you need to give the whole list of disclaimers every time, that’s fine too; but if--if it could be enough to just say ‘hey, you good?’ and let me say yes or no; that would--it would mean the same, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t need to hear it all to know you mean it all every time. I’ll know that ‘you good encompasses all the things you’ve been reminding me every time we’re together. I know that I always,  _ always  _ have a  _ real  _ choice when I’m with you, even if you don’t remind me. I  _ choose  _ to be with you  _ because  _ I trust you, and I hope you trust me too.”

Alex reaches to brush a few soaked, stray strands of Michael’s hair out of his face. 

“Yeah, of course I trust you, too,” he says, quiet but unwavering, “and I hear what you’re saying.”

“I’m really not trying to be a jerk about it.”

“I know,” Alex replies, “And some days I’m probably still going to have to explicitly remind you of the choices or I won’t be able to do this, but--some days...” He cups Michael’s cheek in his hand, running a thumb over Michael’s parted lips before closing the space between them to meet Michael’s lips in a quick kiss before pulling back, eyes meeting Michael’s to pointedly ask, “You good, Michael?” with a small smile.

“I’m  _ great _ ,” Michael answers emphatically. “You good, Alex?” he asks in turn.

“I’m  _ amazing _ ,” Alex answers, bringing his lips to Michael’s again, and though the hasty hunger of before seems to have waned in the wake of their conversation, Michael doesn’t mind the sweet, slow pace instead. 

Alex breaks away from the kiss and Michael whines a little. Alex reaches for the shampoo first, working it up into a lather between his hands before gently massaging it into Michael’s scalp. He leans forward, resting his head on Alex’s shoulder again, relishing the feel of Alex’s fingers carefully working in the shampoo before directing him back under the spray to just as gently rinse it out again. He hums in contentment against Alex’s warm skin, and, while he’s certainly still eager to get onto their main event, he could also be content to stay here forever. The familiar coconut smell he catches fleetingly in Alex’s hair fills the shower, now, and Michael breaths deep, lulled to contented peace as Alex continues on with the conditioner. 

“Keep this up, and I might not even need a massage,” Michael says, already feeling like putty under Alex’s hand as his lathers soap on a washcloth and works his way down Michael’s body. 

“Oh, you need one,” Alex replies, “Your muscles feel like you’ve got about a dozen marbles under your skin--and that’s  _ before  _ the workout we’re about to give them,” he reminds, as he slides the washcloth up Michael’s inner thigh, and Micheal has to brace against the shower wall as he trembles at the touch, knees threatening to give out. Alex presses Michael back against the wall, leaning in to lick away water droplets from the shell of Michael’s ear. 

“ _ Fuck _ , Alex,” Michael moans. “Fuck me?” he practically begs, speaking before he really thinks it through, but the minute the desire has been expressed he  _ aches  _ for Alex to make good on it. Sure that Alex would take care of it--make it  _ amazing _ \--and  _ fuck _ Michael  _ longs _ to be that close to him. 

“Yeah?” Alex asks, breath hot against Michael’s ear, “Is that how you want me to take care of you, Michael?”

“Yeah,” Michael affirms, breathless as Alex mouths along his neck, reaching between them to stroke Michael’s achingly hard cock, and Michael registers how hard Alex is against his thigh. 

_ Fuck yes.  _

“I was thinking,” Alex says, panting, “maybe I could fuck your thighs? And then I wanna suck you off,” he proposes, countering Michael’s offer. “Think we might run out of hot water before we finish anything that takes longer,” he points out with a huff of laughter. “And I wanna save the rest for a night when we’ve got  _ plenty _ of time on our hands, and I can take my time with you.” 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s good,” Michael agrees, surging forward for a kiss fierce with impatience and desire. “ _ All _ of that just--yeah-- _ hell  _ yeah-- _ fuck,  _ I want you so bad.” 

He reaches to stroke the length of Alex’s erection, swallowing his moan with another kiss. Then turns, bracing himself against the chilly glass of the shower wall with one arm and reaching for Alex with the other, pulling him close up behind. Alex reaches for the conditioner, and, for a moment Michael isn’t quite sure why. Then Alex dips his slick-coated hand down between them, covering the inside of Micheal’s thighs with the cold silky liquid and Michael understands. He presses his thighs together as firmly as he can, and Alex groans against Michael’s shoulder as he slides smoothly into the tight space until the front of his body is flush with the back of Michael’s.

“Hell, if it’s already this good, I can’t imagine how amazing it’ll be when you’re actually  _ inside _ me,” Micheal comments, and the thought gets the wanton moan from Alex he was hoping to hear as Alex’s hips stutter against him at the prospect. His entire body has never had a pulse before, but he can feel it slamming through his head as he pushes into the glass of the shower, nerves absolutely raw. “C’mon, Alex, fuck me,” he urges, grinding back against Alex as much as he can, using the arm not braced against the shower to reach back and grab at Alex’s neck, running fingers up through his hair and keeping him close as he fucks against Michael, managing a steady pace at first that quickly grows faster and less measureded as he gets closer and closer to his climax, hands gripping tight at Michael’s hips as he thrusts. He mutters curses, and Michael glances back to see he’s biting his lip, like he’s trying to keep some semblance of control. 

“C’mon, just let go, and  _ fuck  _ me, Alex; I won’t break,” Michael keens, half out of his own mind as he closes his eyes and drinks in the amazing feel of Alex moving against him. 

Alex gasps at the assertion, and it’s like a damn breaking in the best way. He wraps his arms around Michael, firm and unyielding as he keeps Michael where he wants him and sets an unrelenting pace to chase his release. Michael tightens his grip on Alex too, reaches back to tug at his hair and running his nails along Alex’s scalp until Alex stutters forward, leaning into Michael as he comes with a strangled cry of ecstasy.

“Holy hell,” he murmurs against Michael’s shoulder, “That was--that was--”

“As good as all the times you’ve imagined it?” Michael wonders.

“ _ Better _ ,” Alex answers, still catching his breath. “One sec and I’ll--I’ll--”

“Shh, take your time,” Michaeal replies, petting down Alex’s neck. “Water’s not cold yet,” he adds as a tease. 

He wishes he had a better view of Alex’s face, wondering whether he looks as blissed out as he sounds. After another minute or so Michael turns, and though Alex’s faculties seem to be coming back online, he’s still plenty blissed out for Michael to admire the relaxed, happy glow in his face. He thumbs his finger over Alex’s lips before leaning in for another kiss, sloppy and tired, now, but still wonderful.

“Damn that was hot,” Michael declares. 

“Yeah?” Alex wonders as he pulls Michael close with an arm around his shoulders, moving them into the warm spray.

“Be kinda hard to lie about,” Michael says with a pointed glance at his almost excruciatingly hard cock. 

“ _ Fuck, _ ” Alex says as he follows Michael’s gaze. He looks back up to Michael, keeping eye contact as his brow furrows with momentary worry. “Still good?” he asks, biting his bottom lip. 

“Yeah,” Michal affirms, swelling with love at Alex’s unfettered concern. “Good doesn’t even begin to cover it. You?”

“Same,” Alex replies, and Michael watches in awe as he folds his gorgeous, lithe body to drop to his knees in front of Michael. He glances up at Michael through wet eyelashes, pupils blown wide with adrenaline and desire, and it’s so damn hot Michael very nearly comes the moment Alex’s lips close around the head of his dick. His hips stutter forward, and he struggles to breathe deep and get back a little of his higher brain function so that he doesn’t just rut into Alex’s mouth like a mindless idiot. 

“Okay if I--” Alex asks, putting his hands at Michael’s hips to hold him steady.

“Yeah, that’s good,” Michael replies, letting his head fall back against the tile behind him, using the chilling sensation of the stone on his scalp to ground him a bit. He throws a hand out to grab at the shower’s temperature handle, holding onto it for dear life as Alex studies him like this blowjob is about to be a graded performance.  _ Fuck.  _

He’s torn because  _ God  _ Alex is  _ so fucking hot _ right now, and he wants to watch him. But he also wants this to last as long as it can and the sight of Alex on his knees, combined with the sensation of his mouth is almost too much. He settles for occasional peeks down at Alex that get a moan out of him every time he opens his eyes, terrified he’s going to rip the handle out of the wall he’s so keyed up. Alex lets go of one hip to fondle Michael’s balls, then sucks one into his mouth, then the other, before his hands come back up to pin Michael back as he swallows Michael down deep, throat spasming as Michael’s cock hits the back of his throat. Alex hollows out his cheeks and  _ sucks _ , still gazing almost reverently up at Michael through hooded, blissed-out eyes, bright red lips spread wide around his cock. Michael is over the edge in the next instant, and Alex swallows around him, only pulling off once Micheal’s done, wiping a bit of cum from the corner of his lips as he rises back to his feet. 

Michael’s legs feel like jelly, and it’s only the wall of the shower behind him and Alex’s hands still at his hips that keep him upright. Alex grins, clearly please with himself. He kisses Michael, and Michael can taste himself on Alex’s lips. Alex’s eyes are practically sparkling as he pulls away, pressing his forehead against Michael’s to confess, “That was even better than I imagined, too.” 

“How the hell did I get so lucky?” Michael wonders. 

“I was just wondering the same thing,” Alex replies. “C’mon, let’s get dried off,” he adds, “The water really is starting to get cold.”

_ Probably the only reason I didn’t fucking come in the first three seconds _ , Michael thinks.

They dry off together, and Michael utterly fails to make anything manageable of his wet curls. Alex seems to find their unruliness endearing though, so it’s hard to be very self-conscious. Michael checks the time on Alex’s bedside clock. They’ve still got a little more than an hour. Alex goes to where his laptop lies shut on his desk, opening it just briefly to check something. 

“Plan’s still working,” he confirms as he shuts the computer back and comes to join Michael sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’m not sure how often I’ll be able to pull this off--but hopefully something semi-regular.”

“Even if it’s just this once, it’s still amazing,” Michael replies. “It’s  _ brilliant _ .”

Alex blushes yet again under the praise, and Michael makes a mental note to audibly admire Alex more often. 

“Massage?” Alex asks, picking up the bottle of massage oil from the nightstand. 

“That’s really not necessary, you know,” Michael replies.

“I know it’s not  _ necessary,  _ but I  _ want  _ to. Do you?”

“Of course.”

“Roll over on your stomach,” Alex instructs, and Michael does as requested. Relishing the soft give of the mattress beneath him, trying not to think too long on all the other purposes they could put this bed to--because apparently Alex wants him here, in his house, his shower, his  _ bed _ .

_ Alex wants me in his bed,  _ he thinks again, half unable to believe it, and barely holding in a burst of giddy laughter at the thought. 

When Alex starts, Michael tenses a little at the coolness of the oil, until it warms under Alex’s touch. He begins with Michael’s shoulders, pressing his thumbs in deep and releasing tension Michael barely noticed was there--until Alex starts to work out and release the taut muscles. It’s almost painful in how wonderful it feels, and Michael more or less melts under Alex’s ministrations. More than once Alex chuckles as Michael lets out unexpected moans of satisfaction when a tense muscle releases. It would be enough of a kindness that Alex does this at all--but the fact that he’s clearly enjoying every moment is almost overwhelming if Michael thinks about it too much. He loses all sense of time, until Alex murmurs in his ear, “How about I run us a bath? We can spend the last half hour or so soaking and washing the oil off?”

“Mmmm, yeah,” Michael agrees, “unless you wanted me to return the favor? I can--”

“Nah, I’d rather take a bath with you,” Alex replies, “but maybe raincheck on that.”

“Definitely.”

Michael actually dozes off while Alex is gone to start the bath, and Alex kisses him back awake gently.

“Hey sleepyhead, you still good for a bath? Or would you rather just go to bed?” 

“Bath, for sure,” Michael says, rousing himself to follow Alex into the bathroom, where the tub is filled and topped off with lavender-scented bubbles. 

Alex gets in first, beckoning Michael to come sit in front and lean back on him, which Michael is more than happy to do--albeit a bit concerned he’s just going to fall asleep again. So he talks as they sit, Alex almost absentmindedly rinsing the residual oil from Michael’s shoulders and arms. 

“Not that I’m complaining,” Michal says, “because  _ holy shit I am not complaining at all.  _ But I am kinda curious what inspired all this trouble.”

“Well, I’ve been working on the hacking plan for a while now,” Alex replies, “but I know what happened the other day with Rosa must have been stressful as hell. I figured it probably left you pretty amped up, so maybe it’d be nice to relax?”

“Oh,” Michal replies, and a pit starts to grow in his chest at Alex’s choice to take these steps in response to Michael’s keeping the secret. 

_ I got stressed lying for the family; so you give me a night to relax. What was it you said about giving me acetone? “You get hurt because you’re taking my hits and you’re keeping my family’s secrets; the least I can do is keep you stocked with pain killers…” And you started to bring books after I helped you play hooky… _

_ Oh, God.  _

_ It’s the same sick conditioning the warden does. _

_ Loyalty gets rewarded in this house… _

_ No, no, no, no, not Alex. Alex isn’t playing games like that. He wouldn’t. He doesn’t. He cares. _

_ He was going to give me the book even before I helped him fake the fever. He gave me acetone because I said it worked better than ibuprofen. He’s doing this because he wants to be with me. It’s not manipulation it’s-- _

_ He stops himself before he thinks the word ‘love’ because Alex couldn’t possibly love Michael, of all people, but it’s--something more than just utility. Alex cares. _

“What’s wrong?” Alex asks, shifting so he has a better look at Michael. “And please don’t say nothing, because I literally just felt all the tension come back, so…”

“Just--” 

He almost lies and says he’s worried about the time, but he doesn’t want to lie to Alex. He also doesn’t want to accuse Alex of being like his father--maybe Alex doesn’t even realize he does it? Is it still manipulation if it’s not intentional?

“You know you don’t have to  _ earn  _ my loyalty with things like this, right?” Michael says finally trailing fingers down Alex’s arm as he asks it.

Alex’s face darkens, and Michael almost draws back from the unbridled anger in his gaze. 

_ Oh, fuck. I hit a nerve. _

“Sorry,” Michael starts quickly. “I--

In the next instant, Alex is blinking back his fury, carefully controlling his expression again. “No, don’t apologize--that wasn’t--I’m not upset with you, to be clear,” he says. “I just--I’m an idiot for not assuming my dad would’ve spun that bullshit to you. About loyalty being rewarded in the Manes household.”

_ Oh, he’s used that line on Alex, too? _

“Yeah--he said it to me at the clinic, after everything…” Micheal says. “So I got the TV and lunch with Iz and Max sometimes. And then after everything with Rosa and Mr. Green, he--uh--he said to pick the horse I want to keep here permanently.”

“Oh, I know his MO,” Alex replies, with a huff, letting one hand drop into the water, smacking like Alex wishes he had something the actually hit, and yet, with his other hand he rubs almost absentmindedly at the slight tension that’s returned to Michael’s shoulders. “That’s how I got to decorate my room how I wanted--and why I get to be a theatre geek instead of playing sports--and the reason I got to drive a car instead of a dumbass pickup truck I didn’t need--and--” he stops his listing and gives Michael a pained look. “You really think I’d play that sick game with you?”

“Not really,” Micheal replies, “I just wanted to be sure you didn’t think I expected  _ you _ to try.”

“It’s not a game;  _ we’re _ not a game, not to me,” Alex assures. “I just--like seeing you happy. I want you to  _ be  _ happy. I can’t make it happen in big ways, the ones that matter the most, but at least in small ways--”

“Hey,  _ nothing  _ about this--about  _ us _ \--feels small to me,” Michael interrupts, dropping his head back on Alex’s shoulder so he can grin up at him as he adds, “and I’m not just talking about our awesome giant dicks.”

The unimaginative joke gets a burst of laughter out of Alex, dispelling the tension in the air in a wonderful way, floating away like the heat rising off the warm water. 

It leads to splashing and something of a wrestling match that culminates in hasty bubble bath handjobs before their time runs out. By the time Michael makes his way to the bunkhouse (a few minutes ahead of schedule just to be safe), his whole body feels boneless in every way, and he drifts to sleep still replaying the evening over and over in his head--hoping to carry Alex over into his dreams, too. 

* * *

About a week later Alex makes good on his promise to get Michael a cellphone. It’s simple enough, a small silver flip phone that Alex explains has twenty dollars of minutes for the month, which should get them through with the minimal texts and calls they’ll use it for. Michael is a little surprised by how much peace of mind the connection brings with it. There’s no more guessing whether Alex will come or not, since now he can rely on getting a text with the proposed time if Alex wants to come over (military time multiplied by 5, always with a question mark as if Alex still thinks he’ll ever decline); no more lying awake wondering if Alex is okay after a day when the warden or Flint seemed pissed off with no way to check on him. It’s a lifeline, for both of them. He hollows out space in a leg of the kitchen table to keep it well hidden, and looks forward to checking it every night; even if there’s no visit, the smiley faces they send back and forth to signal that everything is okay is still a pretty nice end to the day. 

Tonight Alex wants to come at one, and Michael replies with a quick “ok,” excitement building as he stows the phone back in its hiding place and makes a quick dinner. He catches a nap while he’s waiting for Alex to arrive, and he must sleep through Alex coming in because the next thing he knows Alex is kissing him awake.

“Hey,” Alex greets, subdued.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing really--just--rough day.”

“School or home?” 

“School,” he replies with a sigh. “High school sucks,” he informs moodily.

“You wanna talk about it?” Micheal asks. 

“No,” Alex replies, coming to lay with Michael on the sofa, tanging their legs together in the small space. “How was your day?”

“Picked the horse I get to keep,” Michael replies. “Went with Tango.”

“Tango’s my dad’s favorite,” Alex says, frowning. “I thought you liked Whiskey and Yuma best.”

“I do,” Michael says with a sigh, “but it’s all a game, and I don’t want them being chess pieces for the warden to use. I’d rather them go someplace else. He likes Tango okay, so maybe he won’t be quite as prone to play games with him.”

“Probably smart,” Alex tells him. “Speaking of games we’re playing,” he adds, “Dad gave the approval for you to help out at school--with the theatre stuff. We start building the set next week.”

“Yeah?” Michal asks, excitedly. “Do you get to design it? Or just manage it? How’s it all work?”

The topic perks Alex up, and he delves into the play and what he’s discussed with the drama teacher about the technical aspects of it. It couldn’t be more clear that theatre isn’t just Alex’s favorite class, he  _ loves _ every minute of all of it. Stepping outside the small world of the Manes Ranch will have its stresses from variables that Michael can’t account for, and probably a little salt on the wound that Michael can’t leave his placement more often than he does--but that’s not so different than the sibling lunches and trips to town with Mr. Hubbard. It’ll be more than worth it to watch Alex shine a few times a week, and Michael can’t wait to catch a glimpse of Alex in his element...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While our goal will remain to update once a week, it's going to be harder in the coming weeks just because Strangeredlantern and I both have a lot going on with school and work atm (ya know, in addition to our various mental breakdowns over the current global pandemics and the havoc associated therewith). Mostly, if we're late posting, rest assured the updates will come as often as we can manage! -VS
> 
> Thanks as always for being such wonderful readers! We thrive off kudos and comments, so thank y'all for all the encouragement!! <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mild violence. See end notes for more specific, spoiler warnings.

Michael startles awake at the sound of the knock on the door. Alex is the only one who knocks, and he didn’t text that he was coming. 

Michael calls, “Come in,” anyway, rising from the bed. 

“Hey, I’m so sorry for doing this,” Alex says as he comes in, running fingers through his hair. His stress is almost a tangible presence in the room, and Michael moves immediately to comfort him, crossing the room to meet him and reach for his hand. “I know I said I wasn’t coming tonight, and it was because I had a really shitty day. I knew I’d make terrible company, and I didn’t want to be.”

“You’re never terrible company,” Michael says, tugging Alex’s arm to bring him toward the sofa. “C’mere,” he adds, pulling Alex down onto his lap, pulling him close and holding him tightly. Alex melts into the embrace, hiding his face in the crook of Michael’s neck. “I got you; it’s okay,” he says. “You should come  _ especially _ on bad days, okay?” 

He keeps a firm hold on Alex with one arm, using the other to rub his back in what he hopes is a soothing way, but he can still feel the tension that remains even as Alex tries to relax in his arms. When Alex still doesn’t speak he requests, “What’s up? What do ya need?”

Rather than replying aloud, Alex crashes his lips against Michael’s, desperate and fierce in his fervor, hands clutching tightly to Michael’s shoulders as if he’s trying to ground himself. Michael does his best to return the kiss in kind, still trying to understand where the hell this is headed because his dick has some definite ideas given the way Alex is kissing him right now. But if Alex is this upset, maybe he shouldn’t…

As if he can read Michael’s mind--although more likely he can feel that Michael’s already half hard beneath him--Alex pulls back, gasping, pressing his forehead to Michael’s and gazing in Michael’s eyes with an almost intimidating intensity. 

“Sorry, I know it’s been working so far, but the ‘you good’ question isn’t enough,” Alex pants, “not tonight. I need to say it--all of it--’cause I’m just showing up without texting first and I’m upset--but you can still tell me no, or ask me to go, or say you just want to cuddle or--or anything else--you can say  _ anything  _ to me, Michael,  _ anything _ , ‘cause you have a  _ choice  _ with me  _ always _ , okay? I’m not gonna walk away from this just because you’re not in the same mood I am. Even if I'm babbling and I’m half crazy--more than half crazy--and desperate and clingy and everything, it’s still okay if you don’t want to. It’s still important you have a choice--”

“Hey, hey,” Michael soothes, reaching up between them to cup Alex’s face, careful not to break Alex’s piercing gaze, “I appreciate everything you’re saying. It means the world that it’s so important to you, it really does,” he assures. “And I am  _ choosing _ to give you  _ whatever _ you need right now. Tell me, Alex; I mean it. I  _ want  _ to be  _ whatever  _ you need tonight.” 

Alex drops his head back to Michael’s shoulder and something that sounds terribly like a sob escapes him, and Michael aches with the need to alleviate whatever pain this is. 

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Michael asks, stroking Alex’s hair, but Alex shakes his head. 

“It wasn’t even anything  _ that  _ terrible really. Just a million little things that piled up on top of the already shitty mood I was in and just--I just got all fucking caught up in it and--I don’t want to think about any of it,” Alex says, turning his head to the side so the words aren’t muffled into Michael’s skin. “I just want to be here; you and me; nothing else. I want to forget about everything else.”

“Okay,” Michael agrees.

“I want you to fuck me,” he adds, quietly, “please?”

Michael tenses before he can stop the reaction, but the unexpected, all-consuming fear from weeks ago when Alex first offered something that defied all the rules doesn’t raise its ugly head, thank God. It’s just the general trepidation that comes every time they amp up the relationship, and he feels clueless. He expects Alex to comment on the tension, even though Micheal relaxes again as soon as he can, but Alex keeps his face mostly hidden in Michael’s shirt. He just waits--Michael thinks he might even be holding his breath in anticipation of the answer.

“You’re sure?” Michael asks, because even though he’s ached for it--had a few dreams of it even at this point--it’s a big step that he doesn’t take lightly. 

Alex lifts his head back up, bringing his hands up to frame Michael’s face again, fingers running into Michael’s curls. 

“I’m good,” he says earnestly, eyes pleading for Michael to understand and believe him. “Are you?”

“Yeah, Alex, I’m good,” Michael replies, and Alex buries another sob into his shoulder. “I got you,” he soothes, carding his fingers through Alex’s hair. “C’mon, the bed’ll be more comfortable he adds, shifting Alex from his lap briefly so he can stand, and then bending back to lift Alex up from the couch. 

Alex wraps his arms and legs around Michael like a drowning man clutching a life preserver. Michael wishes he knew what sea of misery Alex is trying to survive right now, but he’s also intimately familiar with the need to just not fucking talk about it--the desperate need to distract, to be reminded that there’s something good in the world and it’s not all just the turmoil that so often threatens to overwhelm. 

He gets one knee onto the lame-ass little mattress and lays Alex down gently, coaxing tender strokes down his sides until he releases his iron grip on Michael’s shoulders and gives Michael room to work. Alex is already half hard too, apparently as eager for this as he’s said, but Michael doesn’t want to rush too much. It’s  _ Alex  _ after all, and this is their  _ first  _ time trying this. Michael might not be the most patient man in the world, but he’s not in that much of a rush, despite the fervor with which Alex is now pulling his shirt off and reaching up to tug at Michael’s. 

“Hey,” Michael says, stroking a finger down Alex’s cheek. “Let me take care of you?” Michael can feel his cheeks heat with the statement, almost taken aback at how much he wants it.  _ No wonder Alex wanted to do this... _

“Yeah, yeah, just--not too long,” Alex answers, breathless. “I already--”

He clips off the end of his sentence, suddenly blushing a spectacular shade of scarlet that flushes all the way down his neck onto his chest. 

“Already what?” Michael wonders, smiling down as he arranges himself in between Alex’s knees. 

Alex looks away and admits bashfully, “I thought it would be enough to just imagine--so I just fingered myself thinking I’d get off and wouldn’t have to come over here and bother you like a pathetic, lovesick, lunatic, but I couldn’t come, and it just amped me up worse and--”

Michael cuts off his embarrassed rambling with a kiss, sucking at Alex’s bottom lip as he pulls away. “You are never ‘bothering me,’” he says, pausing for another kiss and then adding, “and you are  _ not  _ a pathetic, lovesick, lunatic.”

“But I--”

“And it is  _ hot as hell, _ that you’re ready for me,” he goes on, “so you’ve got nothing to be so embarrassed about. I swear. Just let me take care of you,” he says again, with more confidence now that he realizes better the state Alex is in. 

He pulls Alex’s legs straight so he can strip Alex out of his sweatpants before taking off his own boxers, bare skin to bare skin as Michael settles back over one of Alex’s thighs. Michael reaches over to stroke the length of Alex, and Alex mirrors the move as Michael grinds down and closes his eyes at the beginning of the relief. They both let out a shuddering breath at the same time, snickering at the uncanny timing. He takes some time to briefly tease touches around Alex’s chest, flicking his fingers over one nipple as he sucks lightly at the golden hoop in the other. Alex manages nothing but desperate needy whines at the contact, throwing his head back and arching his body up toward Michael’s seeking-- _ needing _ \--more. 

They’ve taken to hiding a bottle of lube in a hole they cut at the foot of the mattress. Michael reaches back for it hurriedly, because Alex really is wound up beyond all reason. Whatever day he had, it’s got him frazzled, and apparently Michael is the person to peice him back together.

“How the hell did I get so lucky, huh?” Michael wonders, sitting back and running his hands over Alex’s lightly trembling thighs.

“Just wondering the same thing,” Alex replies, and though the tension remains in his body, his smile is easy and relaxed as he stares up at Michael. 

Michael reaches to take the pillow from the empty cot beside them, and Alex eagerly helps in placing it under his hips. He pulls his knees up and spreads his legs, and  _ fuck  _ he’s gorgeous like this. Michael runs his hands down the inside of Alex’s thighs, and Alex shudders at the touch, relaxing even further. 

“Come on, Michael, fuck me,” he urges, voice high and needy but demanding and impatient nonetheless. 

Michael slicks up his fingers, even though Alex says he’s ready, he wants to be sure. He leans up over Alex, pressing his weight down on him as he leans in for a kiss at the same time he slides the first finger inside. 

Alex feels so familiar, and yet so  _ foreign,  _ and so warm and soft and Michael almost breaks the kiss his mind is so wrapped up in how fucking weird it is and how much he  _ really fucking likes it.  _ Alex groans into the kiss, hips bucking up already wanting  _ more _ . He wasn’t kidding about being ready, and Michael easily adds a second finger and then a third, and holy  _ shit  _ Alex is  _ moving  _ around him. Like, Michael knew, objectively, that having sex involved another person, but-- Alex is just so alive, so interested, too desperate, and he can identify the same feelings that he’s had in his dirtiest dreams as they reflect on Alex’s face. He ends up more than a little distracted by the thought of Alex fingering himself as he fantasized about this. Michael keeps a steady rhythm with his fingers, lifting up off of Alex just slightly to stroke his cock, which is already dripping with precome. 

“ _ Please _ , Michael,” he keens, his legs scrabbling a bit on the mattress. “Fuck me. I want you so bad, just  _ fuck me _ ,” Alex pleads, one hand braced against the headboard and the other fisted tightly in the sheets. 

“Okay, okay, I got you,” Michael soothes, kissing Alex deep and quick again before sitting back to slick himself up, and the arousal hits him like a brick to the gut at the  _ realness  _ of it all. 

A thrill of excitement and nerves runs through him and his pulse pounds like it did in the shower as he aligns himself with Alex, and he takes a deep breath, determined to make sure he doesn’t screw this up. He presses in slowly, utterly entranced as his cock disappears into Alex and Alex lets out a string of breathless, “yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,  _ fuck _ yes.” It’s tight, but the weirdest part of all of it is that he can’t tell what Alex is feeling, if he’s liking this, and  _ God I probably should have tried fingering myself before this.  _ Once Michael is fully inside him--using absolutely every ounce of self control he has not to lose himself in the exquisite sensation--he looks up and waits for Alex to adjust. There’s panting and he’s  _ way  _ too hot and everything is too loud and with an embarrassed shock, he realizes it's  _ not  _ Alex making all of those desperate noises. It's him. “Fuckin- Alex, Alex,  _ Alex,  _ are you-” He can’t help himself from swaying into Alex with every word, and his arms are shaking with the effort to keep his eyes on Alex’s face and wait for an answer.

“I’m good,  _ so  _ good,” Alex pants. “ _ Move, _ ” he urges. “ _ Fuck _ me.”

Michael doesn’t need telling twice. He keeps the pace as slow as he can manage, but Alex escalates it, bucking his hips up to meet Michael’s thrusts, moaning incoherent curses and praise. He reaches to take his cock in his hand, but Michael pushes his hand away.

“Impatient,” he says with a smug grin, running his still slick hand down the length of Alex, timing his strokes with his thrusts until Alex is crying Michael’s name as he comes, his face adorably scrunched up as he whines. His body tenses around Michael and in a moment of what Michael might call revenge, Alex brings both of his heels up and jerks them into Michael’s ass, forcing him deep, and Michael chokes on his own gasp, his orgasm essentially slammed out of him. He can’t help but slump, breathless, to rest his weight on Alex again as they slowly come down from the high. 

“God, that was  _ perfect _ ,” Alex declares, blindly patting for Michael’s hair. He finds purchase and runs his fingers through it and sighs, “You’re  _ perfect.  _ That was  _ perfect. _ ”

Michael tilts his head to see Alex’s face and grins at the blissful, fond smile gracing Alex’s kiss-swollen lips. 

“ _ Amazing, _ ” he agrees. He shifts slowly, pulling out of Alex as gently as he can, and feeling a little awkward in the move now that a bit of the pleasurable haze has passed. “Gonna grab a washcloth,” he explains, as he gets to his feet and leans back down to peck a quick kiss on Alex’s cheek before he walks away. 

“And water?” Alex calls after him.

“You got it.”

After a quick cleanup and a couple glasses of water, they move over to the sofa. Michael sits on one end and Alex stretches out with his head in Michael’s lap. Michael runs his fingers absentmindedly through Alex’s hair, and Alex has one hand hanging off the sofa trailing his fingers up and down Michael’s calf. 

“Hey,” Alex says, breaking the comfortable silence between them without turning to look at Michael.

“Yeah?”

“I think meeting you might be the best thing that ever happened to me,” Alex murmurs. 

Micheal opens his mouth to give a teasing response--something about fucking Alex well enough to earn sappy lines like that--but it doesn’t fit the moment. Alex’s tone is nothing but earnest. Tonight was a big deal for them. It deserves solemnity. 

“Same,” Michael says simply, “definitely.”

Alex drifts off to sleep almost immediately, and, given that Alex is usually the one to stay awake and make sure they don’t accidentally spend the whole night together, Michael gets up to finally take his turn keeping an eye on the clock. He rises as carefully as possible, but Alex is dead to the world even after being jostled a little. In fact, he starts snoring lightly, which shouldn’t be adorable, but it really,  _ really  _ is. Michael’s mind starts to run rampant wondering what ‘million little things’ combined to make Alex’s day so terrible. The warden? Flint? Kids at school? Schoolwork? The play? Graduation? Another guy? A fight with his human friends?

Michael picks up his guitar and sits on the edge of his bunk to play and quiet his worries for a while, assuming it won’t wake Alex if the sound of the TV isn’t bothering him. He’s a few songs in before he realizes that Alex is awake, watching with a sleepy smile. 

“Is that Nine in the Afternoon?” Alex asks, smile widening. 

“You tell me,” Michael deflects. “You’re the emo expert.”

“Did you  _ learn a song  _ for me?”

“No,” Michael replies, but Alex looks so excited at the prospect he admits, “I learned like--three quarters of a song. It doesn’t come on the radio a lot, but it got stuck in my head the first time it did, so I’ve mostly got the first two verses, but not how it's all arranged for the repeats at the end.”

“Is that why you haven’t played it for me yet?” Alex asks, rising to come and join Michael on the bed. 

Michael shrugs. “I guess.”

“Why are you blushing? Don’t be  _ embarrassed;  _ it’s  _ awesome.  _ That you’d even try is sweet, but you  _ actually  _ learned it!”

“Glad it’s at least recognizable.”

“It’s fantastic.”

“Well, it’s no Johnny Cash,” Michael teases, “but it’s not bad.”

“I can help you work on it,” Alex says. “I can’t play a note, but I can sing it.”

“You sing? I’ve never once heard you sing! You’ve been holding out on me.”

“I don’t sing all that  _ well _ ,” Alex clarifies, “but I can give it a shot. Just don’t laugh.”

“No promises, but you can laugh back at me.”

“Fair enough,” Alex allows. “Start back at the beginning?” he requests, and Michael obliges.

Alex sings wonderfully, as it turns out. His voice is timid but clear. Even with Michael’s imperfect accompaniment, he maintains impeccable pitch. His voice makes Michael want to learn every song so well he never has to look at the frets and can focus purely on Alex’s adorable face. Michael drinks in the sound of it, excited that maybe this will become something regular. Maybe emo rock isn’t his thing, but hell if he wouldn’t learn every song in the Panic!at the Disco discography if it means making music with Alex. 

They only make it through about fifteen minutes before Michael gives in to the temptation to lean over and kiss Alex. Alex hums happily into the kiss, and, when they pull away he says, “Thank  _ fuck  _ you made a move because I wasn’t sure how long I was gonna last, and I’ve already been way too bossy tonight.”

“Who says I mind you being bossy in bed?” Michael replies. “Maybe I think it’s hot as fuck.”

“Oh yeah?”

“ _ Hell _ yeah,” Michael says, setting his guitar aside. 

“In that case, lose the shirt, get over here, and make out with me, cowboy,” Alex tells him with a grin, laying back on the bed, and Michael happily obliges. 

* * *

“Guerin,” Alex barks through the barn, sudden sound making Michael jump. 

There’s no sign of the needy, gentle, vulnerable Alex from yesterday. He’s all business and harsh Manes energy now, as he strides down the aisle of the barn with his father behind him. 

“Yes, Alex?” Michael replies, though he already knows what this is about.

“You’re with me today--need you to work on some set-building for the theatre workday,” he says curtly.

Michael’s eyes dart from Alex to the warden, clearly seeking confirmation--since this is supposed to be the first he’s heard of the plan. The warden smiles at the move and nods his approval, but Alex takes the opportunity to lash out at Michael.

“Don’t look at him like you  _ doubt me _ ,” Alex growls. “It’s not your  _ place _ to question my authority to--”

He takes a step forward, and Michael flinches back. The warden stops Alex with a hand on his shoulder.

“Guerin’s smart enough to know the chain of command in this family,” the wardens says, a rarely-used tone of reason and praise. “And to know he better not even  _ think  _ of leaving this ranch without permission. Don’t start something you don’t have time to finish,” he says, not actually forbidding Alex from pursuing his ridiculous outburst. “You don’t want to be late for your schoolwork.”

Alex sighs but doesn’t argue. “Change into something that doesn’t smell like a barn, and be at the car in ten minutes,” he tells Michael.

“And I expect you to be on your best behavior, understood, Guerin?” the warden adds.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

* * *

They don’t speak as they get in the car and pull out the driveway. Once they’re out on the road, Alex reaches for Michael, and Michael flinches back before his brain remembers they’re not acting anymore. Alex jerks his hand back, guilt written all over his face.

“Sorry,” they both say at the same time.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Alex says, turning to glance over at Michael. “I should’ve known better when we’d just--”

“Not your fault,” Michael tells him, putting his hand on the console for Alex to take if he wants, “I’m just jumpy with all the excitement.”

Alex reaches slowly to take Michael’s hand, lacing their fingers together as they ride toward town. 

“You know I didn’t mean any of it, right?” Alex asks. “And the ‘smell like a barn’ comment--I just know you get self-conscious about it sometimes, so I thought you might like to change before you come meet everybody.”

“I figured,” Michael says, pecking a quick kiss to the back of Alex’s hand he’s holding. “Thanks,” he adds, “but I’m only meeting the teacher, right?”

“The whole technical theatre class is there for the workday; I explained that, didn’t I? Like 30 people or so?”

“Yeah, I just meant the teacher is the only one I have to talk to, and then I just kind of get to be a fly on the wall and build stuff?”

_ Nobody else gives two shits about who the Manes AWP is. Just there to do a job.  _

“Mr. Baird is really chill, Guerin. It might be more welcoming of an atmosphere than you’d think. Plus, we’re all just theatre geeks, ya know?”

Michael doesn’t know, not really, but he nods anyway. Alex probably just means they’re decent people, that they’re not going to spend the whole day bossing Michael around just because they can. They’ll leave him alone to get his job done. 

When they pass the town welcome sign, Michael pulls his hand out of Alex’s, moving back to his side of the car, and slipping back into the more distant role that’s appropriate for the day. They park and head to the back of the theatre, which is where Alex says the scene shop is set up. Apparently the school got a grant a couple of years ago, and the place is really outfitted with everything they could possibly need. Michael just hopes it’s not all too far out of the scope of his experience. They’re all going to assume he’s an idiot, but he’s not looking for a chance to prove it to anybody by not knowing how to operate the fancy new equipment.

“Good afternoon, Alex,” a thirty-something man with black-rimmed glasses, a dark goatee, and a slightly receding hairline greets as they walk into the backdoor, he must be Mr. Baird. “And who do we have here?” he asks with a look to Michael, although he must know if Alex has already cleared all this. 

“This is Guerin,” Alex replies. “Guerin, this is Mr. Baird, our drama teacher.”

“Alex says you’re willing to help us out with the set,” Mr. Baird says, addressing Michael directly, much to his surprise. “We’re being a bit ambitious with the set design for this production, so we certainly appreciate all the help we can get. It’s very nice to meet you.”

He offers a hand for Michael to shake, and Michael stares, trying and failing to gain his composure quickly. 

“I’m--AWP,” Michael manages, and  _ fuck  _ he sounds pathetic, but the only explanation that comes to mind is that Mr. Baird must have misunderstood. He must think Michael’s been placed with the Manes family--even though he’s too old for that--he can’t realize Michael’s just been placed for work on the ranch.

“Oh, yes, Alex explained all that,” Mr. Baird confirms, still smiling kindly, still extending his outstretched hand for Michael to shake it. 

“It’s okay, Guerin,” Alex says, giving him a slight nudge that finally spurs Michael to action to shake the hand Mr. Baird has extended.

“Nice to meet you too, sir. Sorry, I just--”

“No need to apologize,” Mr. Baird says. “ _ I’m  _ sorry that polite greetings from humans are a surprise to you and not commonplace, like they should be. It’s certainly nothing that’s your fault.”

“Told you he was pretty progressive on antarn policies,” Alex says, smiling. 

_ Yeah, but I just thought you meant he wouldn’t mind me being here working with everybody else. Not that he was going to greet me like a human with all kinds of appreciation for being here. Damn, no wonder he’s your favorite teacher. He’s as opposite the warden as they come, apparently. _

Michael glances between them a few times before shoving his hands in his pockets and following Alex’s lead with Mr. Baird.

“Oh, no hands in your pockets on workdays,” Alex says, nudging Michael again.

Michael pulls his hands from his pockets without question, but his confusion must show on his face because Mr. Baird elaborates, “Never know when things might go awry on a worksite. Hands out makes you less likely to trip and smack your face or be unable to block something flying at your head. It’s something I’m a little zealous about instilling in my students.”

“Oh, right, makes sense,” Michael says, though now he has no clue what the hell to do with his hands. Is crossing his arms just as bad? Does he just have to fucking stand here with his arms at his side like limp noodles?

_ This should not already be stressful over goddamn hand placement. What the hell. I should have just stayed at the damn ranch. _

“Alex says you’ve got a knack for building projects,” Mr. Baird goes on. “We have some rough sketches of the sets and the measurements we think we’ll need. It should all be self-explanatory, but if you have questions or issues just let us know. I’m sure Alex will be happy to answer any questions, but, if he’s not around when you need something, feel free to find me--or, if you’d be more comfortable, we have three AFP students I know would be happy to help. I’ll make sure they introduce themselves when they come in later.”

“Thank you.”

Someone yells for Mr. Baird from across the theatre, and he excuses himself with a smile and a sigh of, “duty calls.”

Alex directs Michael to a giant cork board along one wall of the workshop. He takes in the concept sketches, and then the blueprints on grid paper for how to accomplish it practically. He mentally checks the numbers when something vaguely registers as being off.

“Those are wrong,” he tells Alex, with a gesture to one page, he reaches for the pen protruding from the mesh pocket in the side of Alex’s backpack and moves to correct the numbers. It isn’t until he’s about to write on the paper that he hesitates--looking to Alex who raises an eyebrow in question. “I should probably let you,” he says, holding the pen out to Alex.

“I trust your math more than mine,” Alex assures with a smile. “Go ahead.”

“It’s not a big mistake. You just forgot to account for the weight of the--”

“What the  _ hell  _ are you doing?” a voice demands angrily, and Michael nearly drops the pen as he jumps.

“And good morning to you too, Wyatt,” Alex huffs, clearly annoyed. “What’s your damage?”

“My ‘damage’ is that you’re just standing there and letting your antaran fuck up my schematics,” Wyatt replies, speaking more like Michael is a dog who just peed on the living room rug than a person who understands exactly what’s being said.

“He’s not fucking it up; he’s fixing it,” Alex replies cooly, “the math is wrong.”

“I did the math myself and checked it twice,” Wyatt retorts. “If he’s not smart enough to be AFP; he’s damn sure not smart enough to correct my calculations.”

“He’s got about five years more practical experience than you do; I think it’s safe to say he knows what he’s doing.”

“What he should be  _ doing  _ is following directions. Maybe he’s got five years experience of doing what he’s told; that doesn’t mean he gets to--”

“Look, I don’t know if the stick up your ass is because you got passed over for stage manager and I landed it or what, but you need to chill out. We’re just--”

“Problem over here, boys?” Mr. Baird asks, and Michael startles at his sudden appearance, but he’s grateful nonetheless. Hopefully they weren’t headed for a fight, but Wyatt is almost a head taller than Alex and where Alex is lithe, Wyatt is stocky. Michael isn’t quite sure where protecting his guardian’s kid falls in the excuses for harming a human--but he doesn’t really want to find out, either. 

“Just trying to double check the math on this,” Alex says, gesturing to the plans.

“He’s having his  _ antaran _ check  _ my  _ math on this,” Wyatt corrects. 

“Well, no harm in being sure, is there?” Mr. Baird says. “Tevye’s cabin is a centerpiece for the show, after all. We measure twice and cut once before we start building anyway; this will just get it out of the way early. Let me see your work, Mr. Long,” he says to Wyatt, who digs in his backpack obediently. 

He produces a worn spiral-bound notebook and flips to a page somewhere near the middle before handing it to Mr. Baird, who looks it over for a few moments. 

“I’ll admit I don’t see the error right off the bat,” Mr. Baird says, “Guerin, what was it you thought might be a miscalculation?”

“Maybe I just misunderstood the concept sketches,” Michael replies, suddenly doubting his logic. “That’s probably it.”

“ _ Maybe _ ,” Wyatt scoffs, but Mr. Baird scolds, “ _ Mr. Long _ , I’m not talking to you.” He turns back to Michael. “Even if you misunderstood, I’d still like to know your thoughts.”

Michael’s eyes dart to Alex briefly, and Alex offers a small smile of support. 

“I just--I thought, from the sketches up there,” Michael says, gesturing with the pen, “that it looked like y’all wanted the actors already in place as the set pieces turn. The numbers calculate how much weight will be on the castors from the building materials, but there’s not an adjustment for estimated body weight of the actors and the internal set pieces. It’s not--anything major. I just thought it might be more precise if--if that was included, too--’cause depending on how many actors in a scene or how bulky the set pieces are, it could change the caster size you should use.” 

Alex’s face breaks into a smug grin, and Michael knows his assumption was right. The tension in his chest releases just a bit, and he carefully keeps his expression neutral even in the face of the small victory. 

“You’re exactly right, Guerin,” Mr. Baird affirms. “Thank you for pointing that out for us. Did you calculate those adjustments?”

“I can--” Wyatt begins to protest, but the teacher silences him with a look.

“Guerin?”

“Yes, sir, I did, but--I just did it in my head real quick,” Michael answers. “I didn’t write it down or anything, so--”

“Well, just jot the numbers down, and Wyatt will double check it all before we start on that piece.”

“ _ I’ll  _ double check  _ his  _ numbers?!” Wyatt repeats, incredulous. 

“Unless you’re intending to hand over your ASM spot and place on the design team to someone else?” Mr. Baird asks, which cuts off all further protest from Wyatt. They’ve gotten the attention of the surrounding students, so Mr. Baird says loudly, “Okay, everyone, back to work; we’ve got a lot to do today!” 

Wyatt stalks away down a hallway that leads behind the stage, and the other students go back to their work. After a few more moments, Michael reaches to carefully cross through the original calculations on the schematics and replace them with the more accurate numbers. He offers Alex his pen back once he’s done. 

“Well, now that I’ve officially already got more attention than I wanted, what’s next?” Michael asks. 

“This way,” Alex bids, and Michael follows him toward the center of the shop. 

* * *

The workshop is outfitted with two giant garage doors that open out onto a small asphalt parking area. Michael understands why no one is parked here as they open the doors and spread the workspace outside for some projects to avoid cramming into the garage. 

“Advice on what to work on first?” Michael asks Alex amid the bustle around them. “You know the priorities better than me.”

Alex studies Michael for just a moment. “You still just wanna do your own thing? Or you wanna work with me and some of the others?”

_ Always giving me choices.  _

“If there’s a solo project, I’ll take it.”

He’s already had entirely too much attention from humans for the day, and the more he’s around Alex in public, the more likely he is to get frazzled and blow their cover. He thought he was going to blend in the background today, not end up front and center of attention within the first hour. 

“Sure,” Alex agrees, apparently understanding the choice. “We build the staircases as separate units and then tack them in once the bigger piece is set on stage. There’s six we’re going to need for this one. I think you could probably piece a couple together from old sets, but we’ll need some new ones.”

“Okay to set up outside?” Michael asks.

“Yeah, of course. I’ll help you get going and show you where everything is.”

Michael sets up some sawhorses around the corner of the building, close enough to hear the congenial hubub of the others working, but out of the easy view of everyone. Alex helps him grab the cordless power tools he’ll need, directs him to the old set pieces he can scavenge, the secondhand lumber to use first if he can, and the new lumber to use if there’s nothing in the scraps that will do. 

“All set?” Alex wonders.

“Yep, good to go.”

Alex glances around to see whether anyone else is in eyesight and, once the coast is clear, he reaches to put a hand on Michael’s shoulder and meets Michael’s eye.

“I’m sorry about everything with Wyatt before,” Alex says. “This was supposed to be  _ less  _ stressful than your usual workdays.”

Michael shrugs and manages a smile. “Rocky start maybe, but no big deal. Was kinda fun to piss somebody off, not gonna lie.”

“Yeah, he needed to be knocked down a peg or two anyway. Just sorry you were involved when it happened.”

“I’m fine. Just, ready to have something to  _ do _ ,” he says with a pointed look to the materials. 

“Point taken,” Alex replies. “I’ll leave you to it; come find me if you need anything.”

“Will do.”

Michael sets to work on the staircases, enjoying the challenge of a carpentry project more involved than mending fences--even if it is pretty simple. He’s pulled from his relative solitude when a girl calls his name.

“Hey, Guerin?” 

He turns to see two girls about his age and a guy maybe a few years younger. He notes the bangles on each of their wrists, and realizes that these must be the AFP students Mr. Baird mentioned. 

“Yeah, that’s me,” he affirms. 

“Mr. Baird made us come out to introduce ourselves,” the redhead standing in the middle says, crossing her arms in clear annoyance. “So here we are, my name is Karley, I’m AFP. We’re supposed to say if you need anything when you’re here on workdays that you can ask us, but  _ don’t  _ need anything from me. Just because you’re antaran and so are we does  _ not  _ mean we are the same, no matter what Mr. Baird says, so just keep your distance, mind your own business, and try not to be too much of an idiot, okay? Okay. Great. Glad we got that out of the way.” 

She turns on her heel and flounces back toward the building. Michael rolls his eyes, and says to the other two, “You guys can save the same speech. I’m not gonna need anything.”

“Don’t take what she said too personally,” the other girl--a pretty blonde who gives off the same air that Isobel does in that she could kick anyone’s ass if she wanted--says. “Karley’s awful to everybody--well, antarans anyway. Even the other AFP kids. She didn’t get placed until she was like thirteen, and she’s had a chip on her shoulder ever since. Ignore her.” 

“I’m Dillon,” the boy says, “This is Jenna.”

“Michael,” he replies automatically before correcting, “Or Guerin, I guess, technically--whichever.”

“We’re headed to grab lunch, if you want. Mr. Baird ordered pizza for everybody.”

“Nah, I’m good,” Michael replies. “Thanks though.”

“Come on, you’ve gotta eat something,” Dillon says. “It’s fine. Seriously. Mr. Baird really did ask us to introduce ourselves and everything. Come grab some food with us.”

“I’m really fine,” Michael replies, “but I appreciate it.”

“Suit yourself,” Dillion says with a shrug, turning to head back toward the theatre. “Find us if you need something.”

“Nice to meet you, Michael,” Jenna adds before she turns to follow Dillon back inside. 

Michael sets back to work, but not ten minutes later Jenna reappears carrying two plates of pizza. 

“You didn’t need to do that,” Michael says. 

“Maybe I’m just a pig and both plates are for me,” she replies, but she cracks a grin before she can really make the threat. “C’mon, eat lunch with me,” she requests, “unless you  _ really  _ don’t want to.”

“Why do  _ you _ want to?” Michael counters. “Teacher send you back out here?”

“No,” she replies, moving to sit against the brick of the theatre building in the shade. “Maybe I’m just not a snobby asshole about interacting with AWP antarans like most AFP kids are,” she points out. “Maybe Isobel and Max are good influences.”

“You know Isobel and Max?” 

“Yeah, we had a few classes together once they switched from the home-school option over to the AFP public school integration.”

“Let me guess, Max asked you to be nice to me?” Michael supposes, giving in and coming to sit with Jenna and taking the plate she offers him. 

“Actually, now that all their class credits come from work, and they aren’t here for classes anymore, I haven’t really talked to them in a while. But--well--my sister got terminated from our AFP, and she does AWP now. So you could say we had more common ground than a lot of antaran kids.” 

“Oh.”

Michael knew, in theory anyway, that he wasn’t the only antaran to be terminated from AFP placements, but he’s never actually heard of anyone else specific. 

“That’s--uh--that sucks,” Michael says.

“Kind of hoping I can get a spot at the sheriff’s department, too, next year,” she says. “I put my application in. I thought maybe it might put me in a better spot to get my sister--Charlie--a placement around here.”

“I think Max might’ve already used the department’s only favor to get me here,” Michael says, apologetically. “Where’s your sister placed?”

“Somewhere classified, actually, which is what terrifies me. But it’s probably beyond impossible to get her somewhere different anyway. But even if I can’t get Charlie back in the area, I could still help antarans like her,” Jenna says. “Max has done some really great stuff with that program, ya know?”

“He definitely loves the work.”

Michael might think it’s pointless work in the end, but after his interview with Max following the Rosa situation, he can see that Max really is trying to improve the system. Maybe it’s not in big ways, but it’s something. Michael might give Max shit about it, but he wouldn’t talk shit to anyone but Max. 

“I still say Charlie lost her placement because the system doesn’t work the way it should--there aren’t enough resources for antarans in placements. If something’s wrong, there’s no way to fix it without imploding your whole world. We shouldn’t have to play with stakes that high.”

“You’re not wrong,” Michael agrees. 

“Sorry, this is way too intense of a conversation for a stupid lunch break,” she says bashfully, “I just--don’t really get to talk about Charlie or anybody much without Max and Isobel ‘cause no one else gets it, and I got kinda carried away.”

“Did Max and Isobel talk about me?” Michael wonders before he can stop himself. 

“Of course they did, are you serious?” Jenna replies. Michael shrugs, and she adds, “I’m glad they got you back here. They really missed you.”

“I hope you get Charlie back, too,” Michael says, “and, hey, I don’t know what good it’ll do, but next time I talk to Max I’ll mention your application. Maybe he can look out for it or nudge it to the top of the pile or something.”

“That’d be great.”

They change topics to something more light for a little while: all the things that make Crashdown the best restaurant in town, arguing over best songs on the jukebox and best milkshake flavors. After a while, Jenna excuses herself to head back inside to help out, and Micael returns to his work, too. He works for another hour or so before he realizes he’s low on screws and needs to grab some more from the workshop. 

Alex is helping paint a backdrop, and he’s got a small smear of sky blue paint on his left cheek that’s goddamn adorable. His eyes are bright with laughter as he chats and jokes with the two girls helping him. Alex looks every bit of the happy, carefree teenager that he should always be. It makes Michael’s chest ache to think there’s nothing he can do to keep  _ this  _ Alex all the time--to find a way to protect him. Except maybe to convince him to leave when he graduates. Before Michael can get too lost in his thoughts, Alex notices him-- _ could he feel me staring?  _ He smiles, so Michael smiles back briefly before tearing his eyes away and returning to the task at hand. 

He finds what he needs in the same supply cabinet Alex showed him when they were setting up, and heads back out the door. As Michael walks back out, Wyatt awaits him around the corner, apparently inspecting his work on the stair pieces. 

“I need this,” he informs, taking the cordless saw Michael’s been using--even though Michael just saw another one sittng idle in the workshop. 

“Okay.”

“I know it’s ‘okay,’” Wyatt retorts. “I don’t need your fucking  _ permission _ , space trash _. _ ”

It couldn’t be more clear that he’s looking for a fight, so Michael just refrains from responding altogether. He’ll just go get the spare saw from inside or find a handsaw someplace. It’s not worth another scene. Thankfully, Wyatt starts to leave, heading straight toward Michael just to make him step out of the way, which Michael does. But Wyatt just diverts his path to slam his shoulder into Michael hard as he passes, knocking him a step back. 

“You should really watch where you’re going,” Wyatt rebukes with a malicious grin, despite the fact he undoubtedly intended to hit Michael. “Aren’t you going to apologize for hitting a human?” 

“I didn’t--” Michael bites back all the smartass replies that his brain supplies. His hands ball into fists, but he takes a breath and releases them. 

_ He’s not worth it. He’s not worth it. It’ll cost you everything if you’re not careful. He’s not worth it.  _

“Sorry,” Michael manages.

“Yeah, you should be. Watch yourself,” he says, shoving Michael back. 

Michael’s foot hits a divot in the grass, and he loses his balance, landing hard. Pain spikes in his left wrist as he tries to catch himself, and he winces up at Wyatt, trying to gauge just how bad this is about to be. Nothing he can’t take; but is it going to be an altercation he can hide from Alex? He’s already disappointed that Michael was uncomfortable from the confrontation this morning. He’ll blame himself if Wyatt hurts Michael, and it’s not Alex’s fault he goes to school with racist dicks.

As if summoned by Michael’s thought of him, Alex appears, coming around the corner with the two girls Michael noticed him working with earlier. His smile gives way to a mask of fury as he takes in the scene, demanding, “What the  _ hell  _ do you think you’re doing, Wyatt?” 

One of the girls with Alex turns to rush back inside, and Michael hopes she plans to get the teacher. 

“Just need a tool your antaran was hogging,” Wyatt replies. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Alex.”

“Is your pride really  _ that  _ easy to bruise? You’ve got to come out here and shove Guerin around because he questioned your math earlier? You’re fucking pathetic,” Alex declares, close enough to Wyatt to practiacally spit the last word in his face. 

“Get the hell out of my face,” Wyatt orders, shoving Alex back. 

Michael scrambles to get to his feet, but Wyatt turns to shove him back down. Before Michael can decide how to react, whether to shove back at Wyatt in favor of deflecting from Alex--Alex’s fist flies at Wyatt’s face. There’s an audible crack as the force of it slams Wyatt’s jaw shut, and he reels backwards catching himself on one of the sawhorses, and using it to push himself back to his feet. He comes up swinging at Alex. Alex dodges the first punch but takes the second on the chin, he turns to the side to spit blood in the grass. 

“Stop it!” Alex’s friend shouts. “That’s enough.”

_ I need to help. I have to get up. I can’t just sit here. _

But Michael can’t make himself move, just watches, helpless, but it’s pretty clear Alex doesn’t actually  _ need _ any help. He throws another punch, and then grabs Wyatt’s shoulders, pulling him forward as he brings his knee up into Wyatt’s stomach. It takes Wyatt’s breath away, and Alex shoves him down to the ground hard; Wyatt stays down, gasping.

Alex turns his back to Wyatt to face Michael. It takes every ounce of control he has not to flinch away, but the unadulterated hatred is gone from Alex’s face when he meets Michael’s eyes. He reaches down to offer him a hand up, and Michael takes it. Behind Alex, Wyatt rises. As Michael opens his mouth, Alex turns around to see Wyatt lunging at him without much aim before Michael can get a word out. Alex swings another punch catching Wyatt under the chin. His head snaps back, and he’s out cold before he hits the ground. 

“Holy shit, Alex!” his friend says. 

“He started it, Maria; you saw what happened,” Alex replies. 

“Yeah, well, even if he did, you damn sure finished it,” she replies.

For a few horrible moments, Michael worries that Alex might actually have killed this guy, the way he lays askew on the grass just a few feet from where Michael still sits. Wyatt stirs in the next minute though, and by the time Alex’s other friend and Mr. Baird--followed by most if not all of the other kids--come around the corner, Wyatt is sitting up, rubbing at his jaw and looking dazed. 

“What on  _ earth  _ is going on out here?!” Mr. Baird demands. “Mr. Manes, explain yourself!”

“He’s a frickin’  _ lunatic _ ,” Wyatt says. “I think he chipped my tooth! I just came to borrow a tool and--”

“He was out here harassing Guerin because--”

“If  _ anything _ Guerin was harassing me,” Wyatt counters, and a new level of fear floods through Micheal at the comment. “I was only--”

“I’m sure the security cameras will paint a much more reliable picture of what happened,” Mr. Baird interrupts. “Save your stories. Both of you, my office.  _ Now. _ Everyone else, back to work!” he adds to the rest of the students. “I said  _ now,  _ boys!” he adds when neither Alex nor Wyatt start moving. “Guerin, are you hurt?” he adds in a kinder tone.

“No, sir,” Michael says, getting up to his feet. 

“I’m glad to hear that. If you wouldn't mind, please get your work to a stopping place and all this cleaned up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Alex gives him a brief glance before following Mr. Baird and Wyatt inside. The others dissipate too, whispering gossip to one another. Alex’s friend--Maria?--and Jenna stay behind, along with the girl who went for help. Michael wishes they would go, he’s shakey with adrenaline and pretty sure his brain just short-circuited. 

“Hey,” Jenna says, approaching. “You really okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Michael replies, “just--a lot more excitement than I expected from the day,” he adds wryly. 

“I’ll bet.”

“Um, Guerin?” Maria says.

“Yeah?”

“Sorry--um--Alex wanted us to meet you, that’s why we were coming out here with him. Looks like he had good timing at least, since he stopped Wyatt being a total ass out here. But anyways, I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Maria Deluca. It’s nice to meet you,” she says, offering a hand for Michael to shake, which he does, tentatively.

“And I’m Liz,” the other girl adds, also offering her hand. 

“Nice to meet y’all,” Michael says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as the awkward silence grows. “So--uh--do y’all know--what happens now, exactly? With them?” he wonders. 

“They’ll probably both get suspended,” Liz says with a huff, “and maybe lose extra-curricular privileges, if the principal is angry enough. I can’t believe Alex knocked Wyatt Long on his ass!” she adds. “Who knew he had it in him? I was going to get Mr. Baird because I thought Wyatt was about to pummel him.”

“I’ve never seen Alex like that,” Maria agrees, “but Wyatt was being a real dick. He’s had it coming a long time, but still…”

Dread starts to seep into Michael like a poison, leeching away the warmth of the day and leaving him with a cold, sick feeling. 

_ Who knew he had it in him… _

_ I’ve never seen Alex like that. _

Alex thought this plan to bring Michael would all be fine--that it would be  _ fun _ even. Alex’s friends can’t believe he’s acting this way. Wyatt clearly didn’t expect that much of a fight from Alex or he wouldn’t have picked the fight. Alex just beat the hell out of a guy--and it’s Michael’s fault. 

_ Who knew he had it in him… _

_ I’ve never seen Alex like that. _

It’s the only explanation. The only thing that makes sense.  _ Michael  _ is throwing everything off, and now Alex is going to be the one to get in trouble. All because Michael ignored all the warnings. He should have  _ known  _ better than to tempt fate like this, to risk ruining  _ Alex  _ of all people. 

_ Who knew he had it in him… _

_ I’ve never seen Alex like that. _

“Michael, are you okay?” Jenna asks, breaking him out of his spiral momentarily, and he realizes with embarrassment that all three of them are staring at him with concern. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, just residual adrenaline I think.” 

_ I’ve just realized I corrupted the only guy I’ve ever loved, but I’m fine. As long as it’s not too late, as long as I can still fix it. It’ll be fine. _

“Did you want some help getting everything back inside?” Jenna asks.

“We can help, too,” Maria offers. 

“You don’t have to do that; I can manage,” Michael says.

“Can’t let your last impression of theatre workdays be Wyatt Long being an asshole,” Maria persists. “Let us help.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.”

It’s probably a good thing they insist on helping because for the life of him Michael can’t fully focus on the task at hand. He keeps replaying all the times he’s heard about the dangers of humans and antarans getting too close, wondering if he should have realized they were more serious than he took them to be. The rules they were taught for AFP just seemed like a way to establish control and boundaries--even more so the rules for AWP. The vague warnings from other antarans at camp just made it sound like a surefire way to get into trouble because human-antaran relationships could never end well. All the stories seemed like superstitious spins on the usual GRACE propaganda--whispers of antarans controlling humans who got too close; overriding their free will with a caress; possessing them with a kiss--it was too crazy to be true. Just social stigma turned into cautionary tales.

But here’s the proof of it, staring Michael in the face.

_ Who knew he had it in him… _

_ I’ve never seen Alex like that… _

Michael has been corrupting Alex all this time--compelling him to act on the daydreams Michael wanted fulfilled--manipulating him into this farce of a relationship. 

_ How could I have been so stupid? So selfish? _

_ I have to tell him. _

_ He’ll never forgive me for all this, but I still have to tell him. He deserves to know. _

_ Oh, God, he’s gonna hate me so much.  _

Lost in his own misery, the job of putting everything away is quickly done. Jenna takes Michael to Mr. Baird’s office, and they find chairs to sit in. She leaves after a little while, with talk of how nice it was to meet him and kind reminders that none of it was Michael’s fault. 

_ But she doesn’t know the whole story. _

By the time Alex comes out, the guilt is almost suffocating and the need to vomit is overwhelming. Michael rises to his feet, as Alex walks past him and nods toward the door, “Come on; I got sent home.”

“Yes, Alex,” Michael replies, the formal words out almost absentmindedly, and they earn him a pained expression from Alex, who stops walking and turns to face Michael. “I didn’t mean that; sorry,” he backtracks.

“You know that wasn’t your fault out there,” Alex says. “And you know I’d never hit you, right?” he adds. “That was just--”

_ My fault,  _ Michael thinks, but aloud he just says, “I know. I’m fine.”

“I’m really sorry all this went to shit today,” Alex says. “I never thought it would be this--crazy.”

_ That’s because you can’t think clearly. I’m screwing up your mind. You can’t be rational.  _

“I’m fine, Alex. It’s fine,” Michael says, because he has to say  _ something _ .

“You’re not fine,” Alex says, “but this isn’t the place to talk about it,” he goes on as he starts to walk. “Wyatt’s mom is on the way to pick him up to go for scans, and I really don’t want to be around when she gets here.”

“What about the warden?” Michael asks. 

“Oh, they called him, but he’s not coming. He told them if I said I felt well enough to drive myself home that I could.” After a moment or two more Alex adds, “Don’t worry about him. I bet I don’t even get in trouble at home for this. He’ll probably frame my suspension letter for the hallway.”

They don’t speak again until they’re getting into the car, and all Michael can manage for now is, “I’m really sorry, Alex.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Alex says. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, okay?”

Rather than answer Michael just says, “I should take care of the stables and stuff when we get back, but we should talk later tonight. If that’s okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” Alex agrees readily. “Midnight?”

“Sure.”

* * *

Michael manages to hold it together while he’s out at the stables, but the moment he’s back in the bunkhouse and alone, he starts to really spiral. He takes a shower to try and relax, but it does nothing for how strung out on stress he feels. By the time he dries off and dons a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt, he can feel his emotions bubbling just under the surface, threatening to spill out into the world around him. 

He grabs a cup and fills it with water at the kitchen sink, drinking half of it in three big gulps before leaving it on the counter. In the next moment, the cup starts trembling--just enough for the water left inside to ripple. He grips hard at the edge of the counter and closes his eyes to try and focus. Turns his back to the cabinets and sinks down to the floor, breathing deep, and he manages to rein his powers back in. But when he opens his eyes, he catches the time on the clock by the bed. He’s only got five minutes to pull himself together before Alex gets here.

Before Alex gets here and Micheal has to own up to what he's done.

Five more minutes to live in a world where Alex doesn’t hate him. 

Just five minutes…

Four minutes…

Three….

Michael’s breath comes in short, painful gasps, and he absolutely loses it like he hasn’t in years, the kitchen chairs topple over as the cabinet doors fly open and dishes come pouring out. He’s never been more grateful to have cheap, plastic chinaware. Even the little cactus on the countertop topples into the sink. He tries desperately to breathe and control the chaos, and one by one he manages to quell the movement of all the objects in the room, bringing peace and silence to the bunkhouse just as Alex knocks at the door and lets himself in. 

“Guerin?! What the hell happened in here?!” Alex asks, rushing to join Michael where he sits on the floor, kneeling beside him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“N--n--nightmare,” Michael manages to get out, the tried and true excuse he’s given more times than he can count over the years. But he can’t breathe  _ in,  _ and he’s got to, because he’s holding onto control by a thread. Now that Alex is here, he’ll _ see _ if Michael’s powers flare up again. He might even get  _ hurt  _ and--

“Hey, it’s okay,” Alex soothes, kneeling down beside Michael. “You’re awake now. Just breathe.”

“C--can’t.”

“Yes, you can, Guerin, come on. Breathe with me,” he persists, taking in an exaggerated breath. Michael tries desperately to mimic it, but all he manages is a tiny gulp. “There you go, come on. Don’t think; just breathe.”

Despite Alex’s efforts to calm him, Michael still can’t get in another breath. His vision is starting to blur just a bit, and his lungs burn with the need for air. 

_ Fuck, fuck, I’m going to pass out. _

Then Alex’s lips are on his, soft and gentle, and his hand cradles the back of Michael’s head. As he pulls away he presses his forehead to Michael’s and murmurs, “Come on, Michael, just breathe for me, please?”

It’s all so much--and so tender and easy and perfect--and just a  _ wonderful  _ little moment that Michael grins, lost in the moment just enough to bring in a normal breath--and then another--and another. 

“Thanks,” he says, letting his head drop onto Alex’s shoulder. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.” Alex must be surveying the room because he says, “God,  _ what  _ nightmare were you having?”

“Don’t remember,” Michael lies. “I was on the sofa, and I guess I nodded off. It’s no big deal; it just happens sometimes. I used to sleepwalk all the time when I was a kid. Not as much now, though. And sometimes I guess I sleepwalk while I’m having a nightmare? And when I wake up I’ve wrecked all kinds of shit with no clue why.”

“That sounds awful.”

“Definitely not something any of my placement families considered an endearing quality,” Michael agrees with a sigh, “but it is what it is.”

Alex rises to his feet and reaches to give Michael a hand up. Michael takes it, still feeling a little shaky, and lets Alex lead him to the couch. 

“I know you said you don’t remember the nightmare,” Alex says, quietly, “but it’s kind of hard not to assume it has something to do with everything that happened at the school today. I could see how upset you were, and I’m so sorry. I should never have lost my temper like that in front of you. I just--”

“It’s not that I saw you lose your temper  _ in front of me _ ,” Michael interrupts. “It’s that you lost your temper  _ at all _ . You’re  _ always  _ in control, Alex, even if you’re shaken or pissed--hell even when you’re being a horny teenager. But you just  _ snapped  _ today, and--and I’m worried--I think that I’m--what if I’m the reason for it? What if I'm the reason you---you--”

_ You looked just like Flint before he broke my arm and just about beat me to death... _

“It wasn’t your fault. It was Wyatt’s choice to be a dick in the first place. It was  _ my  _ choice to hit him for it. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Michael doesn’t reply. He can feel Alex’s eyes studying him, and glances up at him for just a minute before looking away again. Alex reaches to thread his fingers through Michael’s, squeezing gently. “But I told you that a couple of times already, and hearing it doesn’t seem to help at all. Am I missing something here? Something else that’s got you thinking this is your fault?”

“Something that I should have told you before--before any of this,” Michael confesses, “and I would have, Alex, I swear. If I had thought it was real--that it was  _ true  _ and you’d be risking--but I just thought it was the usual bigoted bullshit. I didn’t think--I didn’t think I could actually have an effect on you like that.”

“Of  _ course _ you have an  _ effect  _ on me! I lo--” he cuts off the sentence, and hurriedly continues, “I mean--I like you so much, and--”

“Love,” Michael interjects, and it comes out harshly, like a curse word--disgusted that he almost got the confession from Alex he’s dreamed about--except it doesn’t mean anything now, not when Michael has  _ coerced  _ it from him. “You were going to say you  _ loved _ me, weren’t you?”

It’s all further proof that Michael has reached the right conclusion. He’s done something that Alex can’t possibly forgive--ruined everything without meaning to because he was too stupid to think it all through. He releases Alex’s hand, rising to walk away, to put distance between them, crossing the room to brace himself against the kitchen counter. He isn’t sure physical distance actually helps at all, but maybe...

“Well, yeah, but I didn’t want to freak you out,” Alex replies, voice timid as he rises to his feet, too, “or move too fast or anything. You don’t have to say it back.”

“It doesn’t freak me out,” Michael replies, still facing the kitchen wall, “and it’s only moving this fast because I’m making you.”

“ _ Making  _ me? What are you talking about? I don’t understand.”

Michael finally turns to face Alex again. “Because I’m  _ antaran,  _ Alex! And you’re  _ human _ !” 

“We  _ have  _ talked about that--that society is fucked up, but--”

“No, this is more than that--more than society’s bullshit. This is--it’s safety stuff. Important stuff that they teach us because we--we--we’re--we can’t--it’s--it’s impossible for antarans to know the effect they can have on a human--there’s dormant powers and--and body chemistry anomalies and incompatibilities and--and  _ that’s _ why--why it’s not allowed, for everybody’s safety--we’re supposed--supposed to k--keep boundaries with humans to make sure that--that we don’t--unintentionally start to--to influence but I thought--I thought it was just--just paranoia and--and a way to keep us from stepping outside the AFP rules as kids. I didn’t think I could  _ actually  _ do something like this, but I should have taken it more seriously. I should have warned you. I should have--should have--stopped and made sure that you knew. But I didn’t think and I didn’t stop you, even with you making sure to check at every step that I was okay with all of it, it never occurred to me that maybe  _ you  _ weren’t making your own choices just the ones  _ I  _ wanted you to make--you were echoing what I--what I was  _ projecting _ into you and--”

“Jesus Christ, Michael,  _ stop _ ,” Alex implores, crossing the room now. “Please, stop.”

“Don’t, Alex, don’t,” Michael says as Alex reaches for his hand, and Alex respects the request but doesn’t step away. “This should be--be a clear conversation, if it even can be. I don’t know. I don’t know how it works. Nobody does, they can’t--can’t figure out, but--”

“Stop,” Alex says firmly, and Michael does. “You are absolutely spiraling, and you don’t have to. I know exactly what you’re talking about. All the rumors and old wives tales and cultural-interaction education lessons about interacting with the AFP kids at school.” He still doesn’t touch Michael, but he takes another step to him, so that only inches separate them. Michael manages to pull his gaze up to meet Alex’s eyes and he continues. “I know what they say; I’ve known the whole time we’ve been together. You didn’t need to warn me. And, I’m telling you it  _ is  _ bullshit that getting too close to antarans is risky and can make humans lose their free will. It’s  _ absurd. _ ”

“No, it’s logical,” Michael persists. “I come along and I get a crush on you--and you start spending more time with me, and risking too much with your family. We start fooling around more and you start  _ hacking  _ GRACE to get us more time together and taking me up to the house to just dote on me, and, now, now  _ you let me fuck you,  _ and you’re punching guys out at school over me and--and--I heard your friends after. They couldn’t believe it either. They said they’d never seen you like that, and it finally registered that--”

“Michael, stop,” Alex pleads again. “Look at me,” he goes on, taking a step back to invite Michael’s gaze, “piercings and eyeliner and band t-shirts--emo band posters on every inch of my bedroom walls--black nail polish--theatre instead of football--Prius instead of a pick-up truck,” he lists. “I’ve been constantly working on little rebellions my  _ entire  _ life. I’m not exactly  _ proud  _ of it, but Wyatt Long is not the first person I’ve punched in the face, either. I got suspended for a week last year for slamming a guy into a locker when he took a crack at Maria. I got into shoving matches with the playground bully a few times in elementary school. I’m my own person, and I’m  _ not  _ always in control--not out there,” he says with a wave of his hand to the world in general. “You see me here; where there’s a set of rules to this hell that I’ve been navigating for as long as I can remember.  _ Of  _ course I keep it collected here. It’s how I survive.”

“But  _ what if  _ \--” Michael starts, voice failing him, and he looks away.

“No,” Alex says firmly, and though he doesn’t reach for Michael he moves to the side to be in Michael’s eyeline again, intent it seems on keeping eye contact if Michael doesn’t want physical connection right now. “I  _ refuse _ to believe that xenophobic propaganda. It’s just another way to try and keep us at a distance--to keep humans from learning the truth and keep antarans in line. Don’t let them convince you that there’s something wrong with loving me, -- _ if  _ you love me, I mean--or like me or--or whatever this is.”

“Of course I love you,” Michael admits, embarrassed by how his voice breaks, tears welling up, unbidden, because  _ God  _ he loves Alex so much it overwhelms. It just makes the thought of corrupting him even  _ worse _ . 

“But you can’t believe that  _ I _ love  _ you _ ?” Alex asks, tears welling in his eyes, too; God, he looks  _ gutted _ by the thought, as if it physically pains him. “You think that you would have to  _ brainwash  _ me into loving you?” 

_ It makes more sense than you actually loving me... _ Michael thinks miserably, but he can’t bring himself to say it out loud, just drops Alex’s gaze again, unable to face Alex’s intensity. 

“Michael,” Alex says softly, trying again to take his hand, and this time Michael lets him. “You are brilliant and funny and resilient and absolutely unreasonably gorgeous,” Alex declares, eyes wide and earnest as he holds Michael’s gaze through the assertion. “And  _ anyone-- _ human  _ or  _ antaran--would be lucky to have you. I don’t need to be  _ coerced  _ into loving you with some made-up antaran mojo. I love you because you are simply an  _ amazing  _ person.”

“Alex--”

“You remember when I offered you acetone the first time? You asked hadn’t I heard all the stories about the risks of giving antarans acetone.”

“And you said even if it were true, that you couldn’t see how it was any different than humans and alcohol.”

“Even  _ if  _ there’s a risk in humans and antarans getting too close in a relationship,” Alex says, “I don’t see how it’s  _ any _ different than falling in love always is. Love leads people to do all kinds of illogical, emotional things. Love is  _ supposed _ to transform you in little ways and big ones. It’s all part of the beauty of it, that we do crazy things for the people we love. How many of the “classic” books talk about it? Too many to count! You’ve read them yourself.” Michael can’t think of a response, and Alex goes on. “You’re not  _ manipulating  _ me into doing anything,” he persists. “I just love you beyond all reason, the way people are supposed to love each other.”

Unable to resist any longer, Michael surges forward, capturing Alex’s mouth in a kiss. The logical side of his brain screams that he still can’t be  _ sure.  _ But kissing Alex feels  _ right  _ and  _ good  _ and  _ perfect  _ and  _ peaceful _ , and he just can’t bring himself to believe there’s anything sinister threading through the overwhelming love Michael has for Alex. And Alex is right, Romeo and Juliet, Elizabeth and Darcy, Achilles and Patroclus, countless other novels and plays and sonnets and poems, they can’t  _ all  _ be exaggerating the nonsensical power of love. Hell, the theme even recurs with the couples that populate the sitcoms that rerun at night on television.

“This mean you believe me?” Alex wonders when their lips finally part. 

Michael nods, managing a smile, “But I still don’t know how the hell I got this lucky,” he adds, paraphrasing their usual line. 

Alex smiles too. “I feel the same way.”

He leans in for another lingering kiss, and they end up on the sofa, tucked in under a spare blanket together just watching reruns, with Alex as the big spoon and Michael as the little. Michael barely pays attention to the TV, instead just relishing the feel of Alex’s arms around him as the tension of the day finally starts to dissipate. He drifts off to sleep, waking when Alex gets up, murmuring apologies that he has to go and tucking the blanket back around Michael. He presses a kiss to Michael’s temple and murmurs, “Love you.”

Michael opens his eyes blearily with a sleep-slurred, “Love y’too.”

_ So lucky... _ he thinks as he falls back to sleep playing Alex’s declaration over and over in his mind... _ so very, very lucky... _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild violence: Alex gets in a fight with Wyatt Long at school. Several punches are exchanged, but no one is seriously injured. 
> 
> This chapter is another one SRL has been looking forward to since the early days of drafting, so we hope y'all enjoy!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the end notes for WARNINGS in this chapter. Please be mindful, this fic was written with the “creator chose not to use archive warnings” tag so that we could add more specific warnings in individual chapters.
> 
> As a heads up, if you are not a fan of cliffhangers, you may want to hold off on this chapter until the next one is also posted (hopefully tomorrow or the next day).

Michael honestly forgets about Jenna amidst the emotional chaos following the theatre workday. It isn’t until he’s on his usual phone call with Max nearly a week later that she crosses his mind again when Max mentions that the department has officially decided to expand the AFP-AWP transition program.

“Hey, that reminds me,” Michael says, “do you remember a AFP girl named Jenna Cameron?”

“Yeah, I do,” Max replies, “how do  _ you  _ know her?”

“I went with Alex to help out at the New Roswell High theatre workday. She introduced herself, said she knew you and Iz. She seemed pretty great.”

“She is. We used to hang out all the time.”

“To commiserate about rouge siblings who got pulled from AFP?” Michael says. 

“To talk about siblings we  _ missed _ ,” Max says, “but, yeah, we had that in common.”

“She actually--like--kinda admires you, ya know,” Michael says. “At first I wondered whether she just had a crush, but the more she talked, the more she sounded like your ‘save the world’ speeches. You should look for her application, if you’ve got access or anything. I dunno. She seemed liked she’d be good at it--like at doing those interviews like you had to do with me and stuff? I dunno…”

“I’ll definitely look for her application,” Max replies. “It’s awesome to hear more people are into the job, actually. I was a little worried that the sheriff would approve it all only for us to have no candidates, so it’s good to hear.”

In the silence that follows, Michael says, “Well, I should probably call it a night soon. You figured out a day for the next sibling lunch yet?”

“Actually Isobel had an idea, if you can get off on a Saturday? They’re having a double feature drive-in night. Noah says he’ll chaperone for it.”

“The drive-in is still around?” Michael asks, excited even though the prospect brings up some bittersweet childhood memories. “That’s awesome!”

“So you’re down for that? I know you look forward to crashdown--hey, maybe I could swing by beforehand, grab to-go; that way we get burgers and the movies.”

“Hell yeah! Could you--uh--have Noah or Sheriff Valenti be the one to ask?” Michael wonders. “Not that I mind asking, I just feel like it’s easier for them to coordinate directly with the warden, ya know?”

“Yeah, sure. We’ll get it all sorted out.”

“Thanks, Max.”

“I know you’re busy and all,” Max goes on. “But I kinda hoped once you’d gotten settled without many issues we might get to see you more than just every other week.”

“Come on, Max, I’ve already got way more privileges than most AWP spots. Daily access to unlimited calls with you guys, time off for siblings stuff--nobody gets that. Don’t push it.”

“I know you don’t want to rock the boat,” Max replies with a sigh. “We just miss you, ya know?”

“Yeah, I know. Miss you guys, too, but it’s still a lot better than it was eight months ago from the other side of the country with two fifteen minute calls a week.”

“Very true.”

“I should really go, but talk soon, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. Night.”

“Night.”

* * *

When Alex texts him early in the evening, Michael’s pulse jumps in excitement as he realizes it must mean Alex is planning another cyberattack diversion night. Michael is finishing up a hastily made dinner of PB & Js when Alex arrives. Sauntering in with a small but proud smile on his face. 

“I’m a little early, sorry,” he says, dropping a drawstring backpack by the door as he enters. 

“No worries,” Michael replies. “Coast all clear?”

“Until 23:02,” Alex confirms with a smile. 

“Alex Manes, did you hack the GRACE system,  _ again? _ ” Michael wonders in a teasing scold as Alex comes to join him at the table. 

“If I plead the fifth, you still gonna put me in cuffs, officer?” Alex teases in reply, leaning in for a kiss before he sits. 

“That’s not--what’s in the bag, is it?” Michael asks, trying and failing to keep the trepidation out of his voice.

“What?” Alex asks, and then realizes, “Oh, cuffs? No! I’m not--I mean--figured we’d try a little more vanilla sex before we branched out to get kinky,” he replies with a bit of nervous laughter. 

“Oh,  _ vanilla _ sex, huh?” 

“I didn’t say there was anything  _ wrong  _ with vanilla sex,” Alex points out. “In fact, I enjoy the hell out of everything we do, which is why I wanted to guarantee a few uninterrupted hours again.”

He bites nervously at his lip, like he thinks Michael might really turn Alex down. 

“Yeah, I think that sounds amazing,” Michael confirms, rising from his chair to come stand behind the one Alex sits in, leaning down to rub his shoulders and kiss the line of his pulse. “And--uh--I have a thought on what we could do with all that time, if you’re into it,” he murmurs in Alex’s ear.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks, tipping his head back to give Michael more access. 

“Well, uh--every time I ask about you fucking me, you ask if you can just fuck my thighs because you say you want to wait ‘til we have plenty of time to prep,’” Michael says. “And now, here we are, with  _ lots  _ of time….if you’d be into that?”

Alex turns his head to kiss Michael properly, sweeping his tongue into Michael’s mouth, running the tip of it along Michael’s palate and giving him goosebumps. 

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Alex reminds, earnest and calm as ever when he offers Michael the option to tap out. 

“I know, but I  _ do  _ want to,” Michael answers, “just--don’t hold it against me if I manage to make a complete idiot of myself.”

“You won’t,” Alex replies, standing up and pulling Michael toward him with one arm and leaning into him, “and even if you do, I happen to find even your idiot moments very,  _ very  _ sexy.”

Michael laughs, overcome for a moment with the sheer giddiness of being with Alex. 

“God, I love that sound,” Alex says, brushing his fingers fondly over Michael’s cheek. “I was thinking we could go to my room?” Alex says. “The bed’s bigger, and we could maybe have a bath after?”

“Sounds great to me,” Michael agrees. 

Alex turns to head toward the door, catching Michael’s hand to bring him along. 

“Do we need whatever’s in the bag?” Michael wonders.

“Oh, no, it’s just a restock for the acetone and lube supply down here,” Alex says, “I’ve got a separate stash in my room.”

“Well, aren’t you a good boy scout?” Michael says. “Always prepared.”

“Got kicked out of boy scouts for getting in a fight,” Alex replies, “so a pretty lousy boy scout, apparently.”

Michael grins. “I got kicked out of cub scouts, so you’re in good company.”

“Damn good company,” Alex agrees. 

They make their way up to the house. It’s a little easier this time for Michael to push his fear of being caught away and trust Alex’s plan. As soon as they’re in Alex’s room with the door shut, Michael pulls Alex to him for a kiss. It quickly becomes something more--the heated and slightly frantic, familiar pace as Michael runs his hands down Alex’s back, grabbing his glorious ass before reaching to tug at the hem of Alex’s shirt. Alex pulls away to take his shirt off, and Michael follows suit. Alex falls back onto the mattress grinning up as he waits for Michael to join him, but Michael pauses for just a moment to shuck off his jeans first. 

“Getting right to the point,” Alex jokes with a huff of laughter as Michael comes to bed, bracing over top of him, leaning down to rest most of his weight on Alex as he kisses a line down Alex’s neck. 

“Well, excuse me if it’s hard to be patient with the offer of you fucking me  _ finally _ on the horizon,” Michael says, whispering the words with his lips at Alex’s ear. 

“So you’re sure?” Alex asks, “You’re good?  _ Really _ good?” 

“I’m  _ so  _ much more than good. If you think I haven’t been jacking off for  _ weeks  _ at the idea of you fucking me, you don’t know me as well as I thought you did,” Michael replies, leaning in to whisper the words against Alex’s ear, relishing the shudder than runs through Alex as he mutters a curse before bringing his lips to meet Michael’s. The kiss breaks for Alex’s self-satisfied grin. Michael gets the distinct impression he’s not the only one who’s been fantasizing about Alex fucking him. 

“You ever fuck yourself? Thinking of me?” Alex asks it so casually Michael thinks that maybe he isn’t supposed to answer. He has to know, doesn’t he? There’s no way Alex has missed how much Michael stares at him, hangs on his every word, cant keep his fucking hands off him...

Michael struggles to swallow around the sudden rock in his throat, his pulse doing that pounding thing again, but so filled with anticipation he doesn’t really know what to do except freeze in a bit of confusion. 

His breathing must have changed or something, because Alex notices immediately. Michael feels his hands press warm and tight to his shoulder blades, and Alex whispers into his ear, bossy and smug and clearly having  _ way  _ too much fun with Michael’s bashfulness.

“I  _ said,  _ do you  _ fuck yourself,  _ thinking of me?” Alex teases, and he punctuates the question with his legs first, pulling them over the back of Michael’s thighs and pushing at his shoulders until he has Michael pinned to the mattress instead.

_ Holy shit he is so pretty. _

Fancy explanations and declarations of devotion fail him as he takes in the blue-lined eyes, the excitement, the  _ smile  _ on Alex’s face and just nods a little too eagerly, biting his lip and letting his eyes wander. Yes, he’s tried it, no he will not be getting into the particulars with Alex right now. It was mortifying; it took at least three tries to figure it out while desperately wishing for access to the internet and something other than his own fingers and aching wrist. He thinks he will probably like it. Probably. 

Alex breaks the smile with an excited laugh, and grinds down on Michael, bringing both of their attention back to the moment. 

“I knew it,” he says, like it's a sweet surprise that he didn’t really expect to be true. He clasps Michael’s face excitedly, like Alex is just fucking discovering that the person he’s got in bed with him is really attracted to him.

“Flattered? You like thinking of me laying there...” Michael draws it out, thrilled to see how much Alex is eating this up, totally turned on by just hearing Michael  _ suggest  _ that he thinks about Alex when he’s not there. Honestly he’s more than a little surprised that this is a real line of questioning from Alex,  _ literally  _ right before they’re about to fuck. 

“I do it all the time thinking about you,” Alex whispers, like he thinks he’s admitting some huge fucking secret.

“I mean,” Michael pushes his head back into the pillow to get a better view of Alex, and catch his gaze. “I’ve thought about you in me for weeks, while trying to figure out how to finger myself with nothing but lube and prayer, and I love you, but can we actually fuck instead of just whispering it at each other?” 

He’s suddenly overcome with the irritation of still being in his boxers with Alex still half dressed, and he knows he sounds needy as hell. He’s suddenly overcome with the irritation of still being in his boxers with Alex still half dressed.

“If you insist,” Alex smiles as he sits up and pulls Michael’s boxers down, leaving Michael to kick them off himself as Alex leans back on his knees to start undoing his belt. Alex takes his sweet fucking time, and Michael had no idea he had a thing for anything close to a strip tease before right this very second as Alex keeps his eyes locked on Michael and slowly coils the belt, pops the button of the world’s tightest black jeans, and freezes. Michael’s confused until he sees the same self-satisfied grin on Alex’s face.

“What now?” Michael asks, but Alex takes his hands and guides them towards the jeans.

_ Oh. _

It’s not like Michael has never seen Alex’s dick before, far from it, but this is one of the few times that they haven’t had a reason to keep things quiet and quick. Michael curls his hands into Alex’s waistband, shocked at the softness of Alex’s skin over his knuckles. He pulls, and it becomes immediately apparent that Alex is going to have to get off of him and Michael is going to have to sit up if they actually want this to go anywhere.

They’re both up on their knees on Alex’s bed by the time Michael has pulled Alex’s inconveniently tight jeans and his boxers down his thighs when Alex sweeps his tongue into Michael’s mouth, frantic and all-consuming, and it leaves Michael breathless when he pulls away. Alex finally manages to peel off his pants and pushes Michael down, putting Michael underneath him, and kissing his way down Michael’s neck as he brushes over Michael’s nipple with his fingernails. Michael gasps at the sensation, arching up against Alex, wanting  _ more _ . He runs his hand over every inch of Alex he can reach, running his fingers down Alex’s back as he pulls him in closer. Their lips meet again, in a kiss messy and off-kilter with the fervor and distraction born of their eagerness. It has Michael laughing a bit as their lips part. 

“What?” Alex wonders.

“Nothing,” Michael replies honestly, “I’m just--really fuckin’ happy.”

That gets a laugh of reply from Alex who says, “Yeah, me, too.”

He plants a quick peck of a kiss on Michael’s lips, and then rolls off, rising to go over to his dresser. He has a fucking  _ adorable  _ flustered look on his face as he takes out a bottle of lube, like Michael’s going to see and be scandalized. Quite the opposite. 

“Fuck,” Michael curses, throwing his head back against the pillow and closing his eyes to just breathe for a second because it is downright  _ unfair  _ that just the sight of Alex standing there looking all all embarassed but excited and bashful but giddy. And goddamn but Michael is  _ in love with this guy.  _

“Well, yeah, that’s the idea,” Alex replies, with a huff of laughter. “Unless you want me to stop,” he teases. 

“Oh my  _ god  _ I would murder you,” Michael replies. “Assuming I didn’t just spontaneously combust first.”

“There’s--uh--a couple ways to, ya know--would you rather--”

“I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been a little obsessed with the idea of you fucking me on my hands and knees,” Michael replies. “That’s--ah--that’s how I always imagine it, in my head, but if you wanna do something else--”

“No, that’s--that’s--that’s--yeah,” Alex replies, breathless and all the more flushed. 

He comes back toward the bed, and Michael takes it upon himself to roll over on his stomach, a little worried that Alex would never actually be able to tell him to assume this position--or give much in the way of orders really. It’s one of Michael’s silent goals to get Alex comfortable enough to let his bossiness into the bedroom more often. 

“Help a guy out with some feedback if I’m making an idiot of myself,” Michael says, because Alex is just  _ standing  _ there. 

“No, no, definitely not that,” Alex replies, and the coy smile turns into a more confident grin, “just admiring the view.”

And now  _ Michael _ is the one blushing, just a bit. “Well, I’d say take your time, but we both know I’m not patient enough for that. Get the hell over here, or I’ll get started without you,” he teases.

“You would, wouldn’t you?” Alex says, kneeling behind Michael on the bed, leaning up to leave a few kisses down Michael’s spine, trailing one hand up Michael’s thigh and coming up to cup Michael’s ass. “How many times have you imagined this?” he asks, giving Michael’s ass a squeeze.

“More times than a guy with any pride would care to admit,” Michael answers, rather than lie or admit the truth. He stuffs his hands underneath his head, to rest on them, attempting casual and failing when his voice cracks just a little. “Don’t wanna seem too desperate, ya know.” 

“Fair.”

He spends a few minutes more just--hell, is he  _ admiring _ ?--Michael’s body, running hands down Michael’s back, along his thighs, and leaning down to bite lightly at Michael’s hip before brushing his thumb over the same spot. Alex reaches to grab a couple of pillows, placing them under Michael’s hips. There is absolutely not enough pressure for his dick  _ at all,  _ but Michael kind of likes it that way. Clearly Alex has a vision, and Michael has no intention of interfering with the picture in his mind. “Don’t want your legs getting tired just yet,” he clarifies anyway, pushing gently until Michael understands the directive to lay on the pillows. “Gonna take my time,” he adds. “Sound good?”

“Fuck, yes, just, you’re driving me crazy already,” Michael replies, half-complaining and half-desperate. His initial guess was correct; he already feels like he’s being relentlessly edged, and he hasn’t even gotten to the fucking yet.  _ Fuck. _

“Good,” Alex replies, and Michael doesn’t have to turn to see his face to know he’s smiling. 

He hears the pop of the cap as Alex opens the lube, braces for the cool sensation of it, but it still sends a shudder right down to Michael’s toes when Alex first runs his thumb around the tight ring of Michael’s hole. He mutters a curse down into the mattress, just  _ barely  _ holding back from pushing back against the sensation to demand  _ more  _ right  _ now.  _ It is  _ so  _ different than when Michael has tried this himself. There’s no guessing when Alex will actually touch him, and the anticipation amps him up so much that he jumps just a little at every touch, totally overwhelmed by the sheer amount of feeling that Alex brings out of him. And  _ fuck  _ he is  _ desperate  _ for more. But Alex wants to take his time--and for all his impatience, Michael wants to let him. 

“You good?” Alex asks.

“Hell yeah.”

“None of this should hurt, so if it does--”

“I know,” Michael replies. “I trust you.” 

Alex goes  _ excruciatingly  _ slowly, pressing teasingly against Michael’s rim until Michael’s already panting before finally,  _ finally _ slipping his first finger in, slowly, and just part of the way. Michael can feel the tension in Alex as he waits to see Michael’s response, which is a needy, “ _ More _ , Alex,  _ please.”  _

And Alex obliges, fucking his finger into Michael  _ exquisitly  _ slowly, gentle and perfect, but,  _ God  _ he really meant he was taking his time. The drag of his finger is almost too much. Michael wants to writhe in his impatience, but he’s afraid Alex would misread that reaction. He fists the sheets and mutters his curses into the mattress, letting out an absolutely wanton moan when Alex adds a second finger. He fucks into the pillows, just a little bit, just for a little relief. It doesn’t really help, but he has to do  _ something  _ with all the energy and excitement that threatens to overwhelm him.

“You good?” Alex asks, but there’s a smile in the sound of his voice leaving no doubt that he knows the answer already.

_ “Fuck,  _ yes!” Michael pants emphatically. “So fucking good.”

“God, you’re  _ gorgeous  _ like this,” Alex tells him. “You know that? Going crazy with how good it feels, it’s--fuck, Michael,  _ gorgeous. _ ”

“Then give me some  _ more  _ so you can hurry up and  _ fuck this gorgous ass then! _ ”

He means it to come out all bravado and demanding, but it just sounds needy as hell and he can’t even be bothered to be embarrassed. All thought of avoiding pushing back against Alex’s fingers inside him is gone, and Michael is desperately chasing the fullness of it. Alex works a third finger in, and then a fourth. Michael has lost absolutely every shred of dignity he ever cared about because all that matters is 

“ _ Please,  _ fuck me, Alex; Please, I want- _ -I need  _ you to _ \---” _

“Shh, shh,” Alex replies, “I know; I’m here; I got you.” 

“Fuck,” Michael curses, breathless as Alex lines up behind him, pulling Michael up onto his knees, reaching around with one hand to stroke Michael’s aching erection as Alex pushes into him, slow but steady, and so fucking  _ careful.  _ Michael just moans, burying the sound in his fist because there aren’t words or curses or  _ anything  _ that can do justice to this feeling. Absently Michael notes that Alex’s dick is hitting places he  _ never  _ dreamed of with his fingers, and  _ everything  _ just feels like too much. It’s too good, and he shivers, realizing he could totally come in the next minute with Alex just filling him up. The satisfaction of it all threatens to overwhelm him, and he has to bury his head in the pillow, try and pull himself together before he says something so embarrassing that Alex will just pull out and leave the room. 

Absolutely nothing else he’s ever experienced comes anywhere close, and the fact that it’s  _ Alex  _ is just--it’s--and then Alex starts to move, setting a gentle, deep pace at first, until Michael speeds it up, grinding back against Alex because  _ God  _ he wants  _ more _ he wants  _ everything  _ and  _ fuck.  _ He leaves one hand to brace himself but uses the other to stoke his own cock as Alex’s hands settle on Michael’s hips, bringing them flush together with every thrust, building and building and  _ building  _ until Michael cries out as his orgasm all but rips through him, vision whiting at the edges as his arms give out, but Alex moves a hand to his shoulder and pulls him up to meet Alex, and the angle perfect to hear Alex pant into his neck, to feel totally protected and embraced with Alex’s arm over his chest while they’re both on their knees. 

Alex holds him, fucking into him so deep he’s barely pulling out, and he comes less than a minute after Michael with the most delicious little moan of relief. Michael is delighted to feel Alex’s knees and thighs tense and shake with the intensity of it all against his own. He laughs, tired and totally satisfied as he reaches blindly back and pats the side of Alex’s sweaty head. Alex turns to kiss the side of Michael’s neck and murmurs “Let’s lay down” and suddenly Michael can’t think of anything better, and he lets him guide them both down to the mattress, sated and spent and panting. 

“Holy shit,” Alex says, breathless. 

“Yeah,” Michael agrees. 

He is not at all a fan of the sensation of Alex pulling out of him, or the oddity of the empty feeling after, but it does mean he can turn and get a good look at Alex now. He admires the gorgeous, blissed-out grin on his face, and the absolutely absurd amount of adoration in his eyes as he looks at Michael. Michael leans in for a brief kiss before pulling back just far enough to ask.

“You good?”

“Good doesn’t even begin to describe it,” Alex replies. “How about you? As good as you imagined all these  _ weeks _ of anticipation?”

“Oh,  _ so  _ much better than I imagined,” Michael answers honestly. 

_ Everything about life with you is better than I could imagine, Alex…. _

* * *

Michael is hyped on excitement by the time Noah and Isobel pick him up for the sibling bonding double feature night. Apparently it’s baseball themed, and the movies are Field of Dreams and A League of Their Own. Isobel confirms on the drive that Max is picking up burgers. She’s got a grocery bag filled with candy instead of buying the overpriced options at the concession stand, but says she’s still planning on getting Michael “those disgusting nachos” he loved as a kid just “for old time’s sake.” Iz has brought tons of blankets and quilts and pillows so that they can set up on top of Noah’s Suburban to watch--like they used to clamber on the top of the Evans’ Minivan as kids. They park in the back row so no one will yell at them for blocking the view of the screen. It reminds him so much of old times that it puts an ache in his chest.

“Max is gonna be late if he doesn’t hurry up,” Michael comments as they start flashing up ads for the local sponsors of tonight’s drive-in. 

“Half the town probably had the same idea about Crashdown burgers to-go,” Isobel supposes. “He’s seen Field of Dreams, so it won’t matter if he’s--oh, wait, actually, that looks like them now,” she says, waving toward a blue double cab pick-up turning down the back row. 

Michael had been expecting the sheriff’s cruiser. He hadn’t thought about the fact that Max probably wasn’t on duty tonight if the outing is supposed to last this long. He’s honestly tried pretty hard not to think about Max and Isobel outside of the context of the workdays they leave to come to lunch at the crashdown. 

And now he’s staring down at Mr. and Mrs. Evans in the front seat of the truck Isobel is waving at. It feels a lot like being kicked in the gut, really--like his breath has been knocked out of him and he might vomit any second. Mrs. Evans has her long, blonde hair down, fixed in exactly the same style Michael remembers; she’s apparently also kept up the practice of wearing what Michael, as a child, termed “stuffy” clothing even to casual events, if the trendy tweed blazer she’s wearing is any indicator. Mr. Evans’ dark beard is now more of a salt and pepper combination, and his hair is buzzed short and neat--also showing gray. As Michael stares at the first humans who should have been his parents--who  _ were  _ his parents for nearly five years-- neither of them turn their eyes toward Noah’s car. Even as Max gets out of the backseat, bearing two giant bags from the Crashdown, they stare resolutely ahead. 

After Max slams the door, Mr. Evans pulls off. Michael thinks Mrs. Evans glances back for just a moment, but it’s hard to be sure in the fading light. Micheal follows the truck as it goes to the end of the aisle and turns to find a place closer to the screen, but they don’t get out to watch from the tailgate, apparently content to watch from inside the cab tonight. 

“I’m  _ so _ sorry,” Isobel says, taking Michael’s hand. “Max was going to have them park and then he was going to walk over, so that--”

“It’s fine,” Michael replies. “I don’t care. It’s no big deal.”

“Right, of course not,” Isobel agrees, “just um--here,” she says. She pulls the sleeve of her shirt down over her palm and wipes gently at Michael’s face; only then does he realize the tears had fallen. “The dust is always so terrible out here,” she says, “makes everybody’s eyes water like crazy.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, taking the excuse she graciously provides. 

“But, you know, it’s okay, too, if it’s something else.”

“Nope,” he says, “just the dust.”

She nods, squeezing his hand in solidarity again just as Max finishes up his small talk with Noah--who lifted the hatchback to sit in the rear of the SUV instead of crowding in with them on the roof.

“Here, Michael, can you grab this while I come up?” Max requests, handing up the bags one at a time. Michael passes them off to Isobel in favor of giving Max himself a hand climbing up, too. “Sorry I’m late,” he says, “I swear half of Roswell had the same idea about Crashdown burgers to-go.”

“No worries,” Micheal says. 

“And--uh--sorry about…” he waves his hand vaguely toward the direction his parents drove off in. “They were supposed to just drop me off and let me walk over, but since we were running late Mom--”

“It’s fine,” Michael says again.

“They--”

“ _ Max _ ,” Michael repeats. “Rule number one, dude.”

He hasn’t actually had to invoke the rule for years now. It had been the first ultimatum he laid out for Max and Isobel when they got in touch after the separation: we don’t talk about Mr. and Mrs. Evans. Not ever. He’d been neurotically insistent at first, and Max and Isobel tried their best to respect it, since Michael would go silent for weeks or longer if they didn’t. Not the most adult way to handle it all--but he’d been a kid when he made the rule, and at no point over the years has he ever had the desire to abolish it.

“Right, right, sorry,” Max says with a grimace. 

“So what’s this movie supposed to be about anyway?” Michael asks, pointedly changing the subject and digging into the Crashdown bags until he finds his bacon cheeseburger and an order of fries.

Isobel obliges with a summary, and Michael pretends to listen as he tries to bury the last five minutes deep in the back of his mind where they belong, along with every other memory of the Evanses. 

* * *

When Michael walks back in the bunkhouse, Alex is waiting on the sofa. He looks pale, and his face is tight with pain. 

“Hey,” he greets with a feeble smile, and Michael notices that Alex’s breathing is shallow, too. “Took you long enough.”

“Yeah, well, your dad’s working tonight, and I didn’t know I was on a time clock so we didn’t exactly rush home. What the hell happened to you?”

“Flint,” Alex explains, “but he left a little while ago.”

“What was he so pissed about?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Alex replies, “I just--uh--I need some--help wrapping my arm I think,” he says, panting a bit as he lifts himself off the sofa and starts to walk over, wincing with every move. “Pulled a muscle or something.”

“Yeah, okay,” Michael agrees, heading for the first aid kit under the sink. 

If anyone ever paid attention to it, they’d know it was a little too well stocked, but, of course, no one except Alex and Michael ever use it. Alex tries to lift his arms to get his shirt off, and a whimper of pain bursts out. He grips at the kitchen table to keep his balance. 

“Fuck, Alex, what did Flint do?”

“Just jerked my arm at a weird angle. Let’s just maybe let’s figure out like a sling?” Alex says, “and--and we can--”

“The last time Flint jerked _ my _ arm at a weird angle, he  _ broke  _ it,” Michael reminds. “Let me see.”

“It’s not broken. It’ll be fine.”

But now that Michael’s full attention is on Alex, it’s obvious that something is very wrong. Alex’s left shoulder seems to bulge forward, and the line of it is entirely off. His arm hangs at an angle, and, given that he couldn’t even get his shirt off, he’s in a staggering amount of pain.

“Alex, this isn’t something minor. I think it’s dislocated,” Michael says, stepping closer to look. “We can’t just put it in a sling and wait it out for this one.”

“There’s nothing else to do; it’ll be fine.”

“It’s  _ dislocated _ ,” Michael says again. 

“Well, then I guess you’re gonna have to help me shove it the hell back in, aren’t you?” Alex snaps. “Because I--

“Fuck, no! I’m not gonna just help you  _ shove your arm back in the socket _ ! Are you serious?!”

“Fine, then I’ll figure it out myself,” Alex says, but no sooner has he grasped his right hand around his left forearm than his knees buckle with the pain of it. His cry of pain is gut-wrenching, and Michael goes down to the floor with him, trying to steady him without putting pressure on his arm. 

“You need a  _ doctor _ , Alex.”

“Well, I  _ can’t _ go to the doctor,” Alex says matter of factly, “so just--just shove it; that’s what they do in the movies, right?”

“Yeah, in fucking action movies where there’s no other option! Not when there’s a perfectly good hospital fifteen minutes away. We’ll fuck up your nerves for the rest of your life if we do it wrong! That’s  _ if  _ we don’t break your goddamn arm trying to force it back in. You need a  _ doctor. _ ”

“What am I supposed to say, huh? How do I explain this?”

“You just tell them it was an accident and that--”

“I’m not really the kind of guy who can sell the whole “boys will be boys; we were just rough-housing” line, Guerin!” Alex retorts. 

His eyes are glued to the bruise already forming on his upper arm, a clear impression of the ironclad grip that took hold and yanked his arm hard enough that it dislocated. There’s no hope of explaining this away as a riding injury or a fall. 

“When I had to go to the camp clinic, your dad called ahead. He knew a guy who wouldn’t make a fuss that the scans didn’t match the story,” Micheal recalls. “Does he have anybody like that at the human hospital?”

“Not that I know of. I tried calling him, but his cell goes to voicemail. When I called the main line they said he was unavailable, even for an emergency; that he was in the middle of something that absolutely couldn’t be disturbed.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“He’s the warden,” Alex dismisses. “He’s in charge of all kinds of classified projects and stuff. Or hell, maybe he just has them say because he fucking hates me and doesn’t want to deal with me. I don’t fucking know.” 

Alex leans back against the leg of the table, putting his head back against it as he grits his teeth against the pain. He’s distraught and hurting, and Michael  _ hates  _ sitting here, helpless to fix any of it. 

“Alex,  _ please  _ let me take you to a hospital,” Michael pleads, reaching to brush his fingers through Alex’s hair. 

_ You need help; real help; and I can’t patch you up this time.  _

“No,” Alex says firmly. “I’m sorry, but no. I can’t risk it. We’ll just--we have to make the best of it,” Alex says. “You know way more about biology and anatomy than I ever learned in those classes. I hate asking you to do this, but I trust you. I know you’ll handle it the best you can. It’s okay if it’s not perfect; I’ll manage. Come on; just--just push until--it’s back in--and--then we’ll--”

“Do you  _ really _ trust me?” Michael asks, as a new option dawns on him. It’s an idea Alex will hate, but if it saves Michael from having to jam Alex’s arm back in its socket, it’s worth it.

“Of course,” Alex replies immediately.

“Then--then trust  _ my  _ plan, okay?” Michael asks. “Let me take you to the hospital, and then we’ll tell them that it was me. That I’m the one who dislocated it.” 

“ _ You _ ?! Do you understand what they’ll do to you if they think you fucking attacked me and  _ dislocated my shoulder _ ? I mean, yeah Flint knows the truth, and I could tell Dad the truth but--but they’d still have to save face; they couldn’t do  _ nothing _ . You would--”

“I know; I know. Hear me out, okay? You just have to say it was an accident,” Michael says, as though it will spare him all unpleasantness. “You say that I came back from the movie. I fell asleep out there, in my hammock, like I do all the damn time. You were gonna wake me up, to tell me which horse you wanted me to fix up for you tomorrow, but I was having a nightmare or something. You tell them that I didn’t know what I was doing. It seemed like I was acting on reflex; you think maybe bouncing around between placements maybe there were some bullies along the way or something. Tell them that I stopped as soon as I was awake and I realized what I was doing, but the damage was done.”

Alex stares at him, letting the words sink in. It’s clear that he doesn’t like the idea, but he must also realize it could work. It’s got to seem better than potentially having Michael break his arm trying to fix this themselves. 

“It scares me sometimes,” Alex says finally, “how easily you can lie like that.”

It’s not what Michael was expecting, to say the least. 

“Yeah,” he says with a shrug. “Scares me, too, sometimes,” he admits. When Alex still doesn’t agree to the plan, he pushes,“the lies have kept me going this long though. What’s one more?”

“I can’t ask you to do this, Michael.”

“You’re not asking; I’m  _ telling _ you,” Michael points out. “I can’t help you permanently fuck up your arm just to save your brother’s reputation, Alex.  _ Please  _ don’t ask me to do that. Just--what’s one more lie to us?” he says again. “We can manage it.” 

“You’re sure?  _ Absolutely _ sure?” Alex asks again. 

“Absolutely sure. I know what I’m agreeing to, okay? And I know I have a choice not to do it, but this is what I  _ want  _ us to do. I swear. Come on, let’s go.”

* * *

Michael drives, since it’s an emergency. He hasn’t driven on the road before, so they take the old turquoise pick-up he uses for farm chores instead of Alex’s car, since it’s more familiar. His adrenaline is in overdrive, determined to get them to the hospital safely but quickly. Alex has his head pressed against the glass of the passenger window. He seems mostly focused on just breathing through the pain. 

“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” Alex says when they park the truck. “You can wait out here or head back or--whatever you want.”

“They’re gonna want to talk to me,” he says, “once you tell them what happened.” 

“Yeah,” Alex says with a sigh, biting at his lip. “But I’ll be clear with them from the start that it was all an accident. Guerin, are you  _ sure _ \--” 

“It’s fine, Alex. I’m sure. Whatever they need to do, it’s just procedure and all. We’ll sort it out once your shoulder is back in place.”

“Yeah, procedure,” Alex repeats. 

Once Alex finishes filling out the paperwork, at the intake counter, he finds a seat in the waiting area. It’s a small hospital--without any constant influx. There are maybe a dozen people in here, and there’s no clear antaran waiting area, leaving Michael to hover awkwardly, unsure if he’s going to get yelled at for sitting down with Alex. In the end he takes a seat on the floor beside the chair Alex is in, leaning back against the cinderblock wall of the waiting room. Alex gives him a pained look, clearly unhappy at the arrangement, but Michael just shrugs and murmurs, “It’s no big deal.”

Before Michael can really even get settled, he notices a uniformed security officer and two orderlies headed their way. He sighs, bracing himself to stay calm through this, because Alex can’t snap here like he did on Wyatt Long. Hopefully as long as Mcihael stays calm, Alex will too.

“Hey,” he says quietly, and Alex turns. “Just remember it’s all protocol, okay?” Michael says. “Don’t worry. Just let them fix your arm.”

“Worry about what?” Alex replies, confused. 

_ Oh, he’s gonna be so pissed at me later for downplaying this. It’ll be fine though. It’ll all be fine. It’s not his first rodeo being taken into custody, and it probably won’t be in last. _

He plays the list of cautions in his mind, memorized because Mrs. Evans used to recite it before they left the house for any family outing. “Just in case,” she had always said. “You never know.” 

_ There are protocols for when humans are concerned that you might be a threat. Accidents happen, but for your safety and the safety of humans around you, they will separate you until everything is sorted out. Above all, you must remain calm. Be respectful, even if the officers are being rude or mean to you. Cooperate with them, and do exactly what they ask you to do. Don’t make any sudden movements. Don’t do anything that might be seen as a challenge. Don’t even talk to each other. _

The rest of her speech-- _Just_ _be as calm as you can, and, if you’re scared, remember that Dad and I are on the way, and we’ll get to you as soon as we can--_ Doesn’t apply to Michael anymore, but he long-ago learned to replace the Evans with Max and Isobel. It’s not the same calm as having humans coming for you. But it’s something. 

_ Except now I’ve got Alex... _ he realizes, and it washes a little extra peace over him. 

“Good evening, young man. I’m Officer Carter. You’re Alex Manes?” the security officer asks. He seems friendly enough, heavyset and older--maybe retired law enforcement? 

“Yes, sir,” Alex confirms. 

“And this is the antaran who assaulted you?” he asks with a frown to Michael. 

“Yeah, this is Guerin,” Alex says, and Michael glances up just briefly before training his eyes back on Officer Carter’s shoes. “It was just an accident, like I wrote on the intake sheet,” Alex goes on. “He didn’t mean to. I definitely wouldn’t call it an “assault” at all. Guerin didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“He’s with you through the AFP program?” Officer Carter asks, still talking only to Alex. “Do you have your ID cards?”

“It’s not a family placement, he’s AWP,” Alex replies. “He works for my dad, Jesse Manes. He’s the warden over at the GRACE camp--but his job’s at our house. We keep horses and livestock and stuff, and Guerin helps out with all that.”

“I see, and where’s the warden now?”

“Work,” Alex says. “Some kind of special project tonight. I called him, but he isn’t available. I had Guerin drive me since he was the only one home.”

“Well, you’re in good hands with the staff here, Alex,” Officer Carter says. “They’ll get you back as soon as they can, to take care of that shoulder, I’m sure,” the officer says before turning to Michael. “Guerin, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d prefer we do this the easy way,” he says, with a glance to the orderlies who’ve accompanied him. 

“Me too, sir,” Michael replies, swallowing uncomfortably as his mouth goes dry, eyes glued to the straightjacket one of the orderlies is trying to hold inconspicuously behind his back. 

“Just hold out your hands,” the officer instructs, Michael does as he’s told, forcing himself to relax for the rough handling that comes next.

To Micheal’s surprise he just takes the cuffs from the pocket on his belt, leaving no question of what he means by the instruction, but Michael breathes a little easier at the lesser restraint. 

“Is that really necessary?” Alex protests. “I told you; it was all an accident. He’s not dangerous.”

Michael manages to hide his wince at the feel of the cold metal cuffs clicking into place.

“Not knowing his own strength is dangerous in and of itself. It’s for everyone’s safety.”

“But—”

“I don’t mind,” Michael interrupts quietly. He doesn’t look up to meet Alex’s eye, but he can guess that Alex doesn’t believe the lie.

“Thank you, Guerin; that’s good,” Officer Carter says, with the intonation of someone praising an obedient pet. “See? Nothing to get worked up over, Alex. No need to be upset. Once your father arrives we can most likely release Guerin into his custody, and, until then, it's just safest for everyone that Guerin comes with me.”

Alex seems to have run out of ways to protest without making a scene. Michael follows the officer back toward the front desk and then down a long hallway. They end up at a small room on the end that--from the looks of it--was originally meant to be a storage room, but now has a table and three small chairs crammed in. There’s a small television set mounted in the far corner, playing reruns of The Brady Bunch.

“You’ll wait in here,” Officer Carter tells him. “Knock if you need anything,” he adds, in a tone that suggests Michael had better  _ really  _ need something if he bothers, and, before Michael can ask what he means, the officer leaves, shutting the door behind him, with the ‘click’ of the deadbolt turning from the outside.

“Oh, awesome,” Michael mutters, running his hands—which Officer Carter didn’t bother uncuffing— down his face. “Locked in. That’s great. Not surprising, but still.” He sighs, plopping into a chair. “Yikes.”

There’s a worn deck of cards on the table, so he sets them up for a game of solitaire. By the time he’s on the third game, the lock on the door clicks again, and, much to his surprise, Max’s face appears. 

“Sounds like your night went to hell pretty quick,” he says, walking in and shutting the door behind him. 

“I thought you were off tonight,” Michael replies. “Figured I’d be stuck talking to a deputy.”

“First off, the whole department knows you’re my brother. They would’ve called me anyway,” Max replies.

“You told everybody you work with about your hooligan brother?”

“You’re not a  _ hooligan _ ,” Max huffs. “And of  _ course  _ I did.”

“So they’d be nice if I got called in for something? Or so you could keep tabs on me?”

“Both,” Max says with a shrug. 

“Mother hen,” Micheal mutters, but he can hear the fondness that comes through in his tone. 

“Then I guess that makes you the suicidally idiotic chick,” Max replies. 

“Touche,” Michael says with a laugh. “Are they this chill with all antaran intakes?” Michael wonders, raising his cuffed hands, “or is this the Evans-sibling special?”

“We developed a tiered intake protocol for our jurisdiction--and some others are adopting it, too.”

“That’s really awesome, actually,” Michael says. 

“Thanks,” Max replies, a little bashful at the praise. 

“You said “first off” earlier, about them calling you, what’s the second point?”

“Oh,” Max says. “Just that I’m always on call for antaran intakes. That’s part of why we were successful in asking for more AWP spots; I can’t always cover them all.”

“Gotcha. So, uh, what now, Cadet? Am I going to the station?”

“Not my call, really,” he says, “Deputy Thompson decides. He’s talking to Alex now I think, and they’re still trying to touch base with Warden Manes. For now, I just need to take your statement,” Max says, waving a tape recorder. “I’ll take notes, but we record it too, just in case.”

“It’s a short story,” Michael says, “but sure.”

Max does introductory things--date, time, location--and then moves on to “can you tell me in your own words what happened?”

“I don’t know,” Michael says, and Max glares at him across the table. “I mean--I know what happened, now, but it wasn’t--I didn’t plan it. It wasn’t on purpose.”

“So, to be clear here, you’re saying that you did not intentionally harm Alex Manes?”

“No, definitely,  _ definitely _ not. I wouldn’t do that--not to him or any human.”

“Okay, so it was something beyond your control,” Max says. “Walk me through what you remember.”

“I went to the movies with you and Iz tonight. When I got back, I did a quick check on the stables, and then I decided I was gonna call it a night and sleep in my hammock.”

“Your hammock?” Max repeats.

“Yeah, I’ve got the bunkhouse, like I told y’all in that interview with the sheriff,” Michael expounds, “But I put a hammock up, too. There’s this little kind of lean-to on the back side of the barn--where the warden keeps the tractor and some other equipment and stuff--and I fall asleep out there sometimes. You know, I always liked sleeping outside better,” he rambles, wary of having his story be too short and sweet and match Alex’s  _ too  _ well. “So I was gonna sleep out there, since the weather was nice. So then one minute I was lounging in the hammock and, then the next thing I know, I’m up and on my feet. Alex is cussing at me asking what my problem is. I’d already let go of him, and he was backing up and holding his arm. It was an accident, Max. I don’t know if I was having a nightmare or what, but I swear I wouldn’t have ever done it on purpose.”

“You don’t remember what you were dreaming about?”

“No, nothing,” Michael says. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay, just getting as much of your mental impression as we can.” Max says, jotting a few things down on his notepad. “This is gonna be a little like the last interview, okay? Just some questions I need to ask, to make sure we have the whole picture. Nothing to worry about, just be honest.”

“Okay, yeah, sure.”

“Do you feel safe in your placement at the Manes Ranch?”

“Yeah, I do,” Michael lies. “I like it there,” he adds, because that’s much less of a lie, especially these days with Alex. “It’s one of the best placements I’ve had.”

“Good,” Max says with a genuine smile. “So Alex Manes doesn’t make you feel unsafe?”

“Nope.”

“Do you know why he was waking you up?”

“He said after that he was coming to tell me which horse to saddle up for him the next day. All the Maneses take the horses out from time to time--it’s pretty usual for them to give me a heads up the day before so the horse is ready when they want it.”

“Has Alex--or anyone else--during your placement ever made  _ any _ unwanted physical contact of  _ any  _ kind while you were at this placement. For example, even a shove that didn’t leave a mark or even if there was a hug you weren’t comfortable with?”

“No.”

“So are you worried about your safety in the future if your placement with the Manes continues?”

“ _ If  _ it continues?” Michael repeats. “Is this--am I gonna lose my placement for this?! Max, I  _ swear _ \--”

“It’s just a standard question, Michael, I promise,” Max replies kindly. “It’s not my call, so I can’t guarantee anything. I do think it would be unlikely for the warden to request a switch after a relatively minor accident, but it’s really up to him.”

“Right, yeah,” Micheal says, and, though he doesn’t expect the warden would go to the trouble, he still never considered the possibility of losing the placement altogether because of this.  _ Fuck. _

“I do need you to answer the question for me though, Max prompts. Are you worried about your safety in the future if your placement continues?”

“No.”

“Are you familiar with the idea of self-defense?”

“Yeah,” Michael replies, “fighting back because somebody’s hurting you.”

“Would you in any way categorize what happened tonight as self defense?”

“You mean self-defense from Alex Manes?” Michael asks.

“I mean self-defense in  _ any  _ way,” Max says, “and you can just kind of explain your answer.”

“What do you mean? Are you trying to figure out if I have PTSD or something?” Michael wonders.

“Do  _ you  _ think that you have PTSD?”

“I dunno, maybe. I mean, remember that time we crash landed on an alien planet when we were seven?” he jokes, but Max doesn’t smile. “I’ve had nightmares since we were little,” Michael goes on, “and there’ve been some bullies at some of my old placements. Boys will be boys and all that, ya know. I didn’t know it was Alex waking me up. I think my brain thought it was a threat, so, yeah, acting in self-defense, but I couldn’t tell you exactly what or who I thought I was defending against,” Michael admits. 

“Okay, last question: you understand that our role here, as law enforcement, is to help, and that help comes in a lot of forms. We don’t just arrest people or take Antarans out of placements. We can help you find ways to talk to your guardian about anything that has occurred during this placement that makes you feel uncomfortable or unsafe in  _ any  _ way, no matter how small.” 

“You ask that question in every interview?” Michael wonders. 

“We do.”

“That’s good,” Michael says, “It’s a good reminder.”

“And in light of that reminder, is there anything else you want to tell me or ask me?” 

“Just--one thing.”

“Okay,” Max says, and Michael feels a little guilty that worry shadows Max’s face. “What’s that?”

“Nothing big, nothing about the placement,” Michael clarifies. “I just--I’m not like  _ super  _ claustrophobic, but damn this is a tiny room, and it locks from the outside and there’re no windows, just--I’m not sure how long the warden’s testing thing at work is gonna be. It wasn’t fun for an hour, but if it’s all night...Is there like  _ any  _ chance I could--I dunno--wait outside someplace? They can totally cuff me to something or--”

“Sure, I’ll see what I can do,” Max says. 

“Thanks.”

He reaches to cut off the tape recorder between them. 

“If you were anybody else, I’d say you were probably just going to have to stick it out in here,” Max admits, “but Deputy Thompson is pretty chill. Alex should be fine soon. I might be able to get them to let you wait out at the truck or something. We’ll see.”

“What’s the frown about?” Michael asks. “If it’s that much trouble, don’t--”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“This kind of reaction to someone waking you up suddenly,” Max says, “automatically going on the defensive and fucking  _ dislocating  _ a shoulder…”

“Yeah, I know, it’s pretty fucked up, but I really didn’t mean to.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Max affirms, “but it  _ is  _ a PTSD symptom, Michael. It’s what you see in trauma survivors. I’ve woken you from crash nightmares,” he reminds. “Maybe not recently, but still. I don’t think that your reaction tonight was a crash issue. It’s the kind of move you learn because you assume any unwanted or unexpected touch is a threat.”

“I’m fine, Max. It’s fine.”

“Who hurt you?” Max asks. “Someone did--maybe more than one person. So who was it?”

“It doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Don’t worry about it.”

“Of  _ course  _ I worry about it!”

“I just told you it’s not from the Manes Ranch placement,” Michael says. “You already fixed the problem. There’s nothing more you need to do; you’ve done plenty.”

“We can get you in to talk with someone. There are case workers to--”

“Max, I don’t even like talking to  _ you  _ about shit like this.”

“It’s easier when it’s a stranger sometimes,” Max replies. “Trust me.”

“Wait,  _ you’ve  _ talked to a caseworker?”

Max sighs. “My brother got ripped out of our home when we were twelve years old--after some pretty traumatic family drama,” he points out. “You think I adjusted well to that?”

“Is that where you learned all your mother hen questions to annoy me with?”

“Just--let me know if you want to talk to somebody? I think it would be good for you.”

“Note taken, Cadet,” Michael says with a mock salute.

Max frowns at the cuffs on Michael’s wrist as he brings his hands back down to the table. Max rises to go knock on the door and be let out. “I’ll see what I can do about getting you out of here sooner than later. Even if I can’t, I’ll come keep you company for a while.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“You’re my brother,” Max replies with a shrug and a smile before slipping out the door as Officer Carter opens it up. 

He’s back in ten minutes, bearing hot chocolate.

“Come on, we can wait out at the truck,” he beckons, “but you gotta keep the cuffs on, and give me the key to the truck. Sorry.”

“Terms accepted, dude; definitely don’t apologize,” Michael agrees instantly. “I swear to God these walls are closing in.”

They settle out in the truck, cranking the windows down so it doesn’t get stuffy. Max sits on the drivers side, in an abundance of caution, and Michael takes the passenger side. 

“Those cuffs too tight?” Max asks, no doubt noting the red marks starting to form on Michael’s wrists. 

“Nah, I’ve just been moving too much. I’m fine.”

Max frowns, but there’s not much to be done. “You should get some sleep, if you can,” Max says. “They don’t seem to have much of an idea how long before the warden will be here.”

“What’re you gonna do?” 

Max pulls a worn deck of cards from his back pocket. Michael wonders if he’s the one who had the idea of leaving the cards that were in the holding room back at the hospital. 

“Hold ‘em or Five Card Draw?” Michael asks. 

“You should sleep.”

“I’m too hyped to sleep. I’ll catch a nap or something tomorrow,” Michael says. “Grab the toolbox out of the back of the truck,” he suggests. “We’ll use washers and screws for poker chips.”

Max grins before getting out to rummage in the back for the box. They divvy up the hardware and start their game. All in all, it’s easily the best night Michael’s spent in custody. He thinks maybe they should start playing poker at some of their sibling lunches--of Isobel will avoid cheating like she used to at games when they were kids. Max is winning, much to Michael’s annoyance, when the warden finally arrives a little after one in the morning. He disappears into the hospital for a while, and, not long after he emerges along with Officer Carter and Alex, whose arm is in a sling, but his shoulder looks normal now. Michael is just glad to see the pained expression off of his face.

“Whelp, your lucky night I guess,” Michael says as he and Max scoop up the hardware and put them back in the toolbox. “I was just about to stage my big comeback.”

“Uh huh, sure,” Max replies, rolling his eyes. 

Since it's no longer technically an emergency, Michael can’t drive the truck home. Instead, once Officer Carter uncuffs him and officially releases him into the warden’s care, he joins the warden and Alex in the warden’s truck for the ride home. As soon as they’re out on the road, the warden glares at Michael in the rearview mirror.

“Explain yourself, Guerin,” he commands, quiet fury in his tone sending a chill down Michael’s spine. 

“I just--just did what Alex said,” Michael replies. “He said t-to drive him to the hospital and tell them--”

“Flint was in a pissy mood,” Alex interjects with a huff. “He threw a punch and I tried to swing back, but he jerked my arm around. It dislocated, and he backed off and stormed out to wherever the hell he goes when he’s pissed. I couldn’t leave my arm like that, but the handprint was already bruising. So when Guerin got back I told him to drive me to hospital and we’d say it was all an accident.”

The warden’s anger wanes to a less terrifying level. He runs his hand down his face. “Your brother’s goddamn temper,” he mutters, reminding Michael all too much of the same comment made after Flint’s over-the-top attack on him. 

_ Exactly how often does Flint go off the rails with his temper?  _ Michael wonders.  _ Has he always been like this? _

For the millionth time, Michael wonders how in the world Alex has survived seventeen years of this, between the warden’s controlled and cunning cruelty and Flint’s terrifying volatility. 

“Seems like you handled things well,” the warden says to Alex, as close to praise as Michael’s heard. “Quick thinking-- _ Manes  _ man thinking,” he says with a clearly proud smile. “The kind of thinking GRACE can put to some good use in a few months.”

Right, because in five weeks, Alex is graduating, and two weeks after that he’ll turn eighteen. Michael’s heart drops at the reminder. He tries--but rarely succeeds--to forget that Alex might be gone soon. 

“Have you taken a look at that application packet I gave you yesterday?” 

“Haven’t had a chance yet, but I will,” Alex replies. 

“It’s a rolling acceptance deadline, so the sooner you get it taken care of the sooner you’ll get an answer. Don’t let time slip by.”

“Yes, sir. I won’t.”

The rest of the ride back to the ranch is silent. When they exit the truck, Michael heads for the bunkhouse to get as much sleep as he can. 

“Guerin!” the warden calls after him. 

“Yes, sir?”

“You have permission to sleep in until 08:30. Maybe we’ll look into getting you a limited license so you can drive the truck for supply runs.”

_ Loyalty is rewarded in this family... _

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

* * *

Alex texts the next day, wanting to come by, and, of course, Michael agrees. When Alex comes in a little after midnight, one glance tells Michael just how frazzled he is. His hair is awry where he’s been running fingers through it. The lines of his shoulders are harsh with tension, although that could be pain--or something to do with the sling he’s wearing. From the look of it, though, his teeth are clenched hard and the tell-tale sign of his bottom lip red and irritated from biting at it while he worries over whatever’s on his mind. Distress shines in his eyes as they meet Michael’s gaze.

“Hey, c’mere, what’s wrong?” Michael asks, beckoning for Alex to come join him on the sofa. 

“Honestly?” Alex says, and while he does come to sit next to Michael, he takes the other end of the sofa, turning to face Michael rather than melting into Michael’s lap like he normally does when he’s this stressed.

“Yeah, of course honestly,” Michael replies, turning in kind to face Alex. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know whether to start with an apology or yell at you for sugarcoating things,” Alex replies, running frustrated fingers through his hair. He’s practically humming with energy, drumming the fingers of his uninjured hand on his knee. 

“You can yell if you want,” Michael replies with a shrug. “Cause, yeah I sugarcoated it, and I’d do it again. Still better than having to shove your arm back in socket without--”

“They took you away in  _ handcuffs _ and then started asking about pressing _ charges  _ and  _ terminating your placement _ !” Alex retorts, voice breaking with the words. “They could have  _ taken you away _ !”

“You had a dislocated shoulder!”

“Did you  _ know  _ what you were risking?”

“I knew they’d offer, but I figured I’d shown enough loyalty that the warden wouldn’t--”

“You  _ gambled  _ with--with letting them take you! And they had a  _ straightjacket _ \--they were ready to use a  _ straightjacket  _ on you and--and I had to just--I just stood there--and--and then sat in my exam room wondering what kind of hellhole they stuck you in to wait--and what if Dad got to you before I could explain it all to him--what if he just told them to take you away--and I wouldn’t know where or how to get you back and I was supposed to be keeping up the act that I didn’t really care, but  _ what  _ the hell would I do if they just  _ took  _ you, Michael? I can’t--I can’t even-- _ how  _ could you risk that and not tell me!”

“Hey, hey, I’m right here,” Michael says, sliding across the couch to close the distance between them, taking Alex’s hand and reaching with the other to smooth his hair back down. “Nobody took me anywhere, okay? I just had maybe an hour in a little holding room and then I got to chill in the truck with Max until the warden came. I’m  _ fine _ , and you got actual medical attention like you needed.”

“You told me you knew what you were agreeing to,” Alex recounts, “before we ever left the ranch. You said you knew you had a choice, and you were choosing for us to handle it at the hospital.”

“Yeah.”

“So you expected them to take you into custody like that--”

“It’s just protocol, Alex. I knew you wouldn’t like it, but I  _ also  _ knew I’d rather do that than fuck up your arm. It was easily the best night I’ve spent in custody, honest. Max isn’t kidding about all the work they’re doing to make things better for Antarans when--”

“The  _ best  _ night? You’ve got bruises on your wrists from the handcuffs and--”

“Well, I thought I was signing up for a straightjacket and a sedative, so that’s pretty small potatoes compared to--”

“You  _ what _ ?!”

“It’s just protocol,” Michael says again.

Alex pulls his hand away, rising to his feet and alight with righteous fury that Michael doesn’t understand. 

“I am such an  _ idiot _ !” Alex rants, starting to pace. “I’m just--I’m a blind, naive  _ idiot  _ human who hasn’t paid attention to  _ shit _ because I’ve had my head so far up my own ass I couldn’t see just how  _ fucked _ all this is. I just--just play along and stay quiet and don’t look to close at what my dad does or what Flint does or how the system works because I don’t want to know. I want to think people older than me and smarter than me and  _ better _ than me are pulling the strings, but it’s just selfish, willful ignorance!”

“What the  _ hell  _ are you talking about?” Michael asks. “You’re not--”

“You knew it was protocol. I had  _ no clue  _ there’s protocol for things like that. I didn’t even think to ask. I just assumed you’d get fair treatment once I explained it was an accident--that an organization like GRACE would have some actual fucking  _ grace _ . But it’s just another thing in a long line of bullshit I never stopped to question, until you. I thought bad placements here were the rare exception, not widespread problems. I never thought to question whether the microchips were harmful. I never wondered who bothers to see if GRACE is following its own damn policies. I forget that there are a million protocols to  _ handle _ Antarans like you’ve done something wrong and deserve it  _ just because you’re antaran,  _ and it all just leaves you in one impossible situation after the other.”

“Alex, please don’t do this to yourself, okay? It’s so much bigger than  _ one _ person could ever--”

“I  _ never  _ want you in that position again,” he declares, finally stopping his pacing to meet Michael’s eyes again, “walking into the mercy of this fucked up system because of me.  _ Never  _ again.”

“Alex--”

“And--and I’m done playing games and being a horny, naive teenager about the rest of it too. I don’t know how exactly, but we’re not just going to stand by and let my dad and Flint do whatever they want either.”

“ _ Alex _ , it’s okay--”

“No! It’s not! I will  _ not  _ lose you because I sat around like a coward and just let things happen to us. I thought it out--all of it, sitting in that room, waiting. Today, listening to Dad go after Flint for making more trouble. I’m going to get us leverage, okay? My hacking skills that I used for bullshit distractions--”

“Hey, I thoroughly enjoyed the benefits of those distractions; they weren’t bullshit,” Michel chimes in, trying desperately to use a little levity to pull Alex back from the perilous emotional ledge he’s marching onto. 

“I’m serious. The next time, it’s not for show. I’m going to find something--God knows there’s got to be plenty. I’m going to get us leverage against them.”

“You’re going to  _ blackmail _ the warden?”

“My dad, Flint, the whole goddamn GRACE organization if that’s what it takes to make sure you can be safe!” To Michael’s absolute shock Alex drops down to kneel in front of him on the couch. He reaches up to take Michael’s hand and stares into Michael’s eyes with such genuine devotion that Michael almost has to look away. “I am going to find a way to set us free of them,” he vows. 

“It’s too much, Alex,” Michael protests. “It’ll destroy what we’ve got. I don’t need to be  _ free  _ of anybody, as long as I’ve got you.” But even as he claims it, Michael’s soul  _ aches  _ for Alex’s plan to become a reality--to live in a world where they have enough ammunition to keep Jesse Manes and all the other monsters at bay and just  _ be _ .

“You’ve got me,” Alex replies, “always. I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“How the hell did I get so lucky, huh?” Michael says, at a loss for all other words. 

“I  _ love  _ you, Michael.”

“I love you, too,” Michael replies, unable to resist any longer the yearning to seal his declaration with a kiss. 

All Alex’s fervor transfers into passion, and he kisses back zealously, moving to sit in Michael’s lap. He fucks his tongue into Michael’s mouth and then kisses a line down his neck. 

“I don’t--wanna hurt--your shoulder,” Michael pants. 

“I wanna ride you,” Alex replies, grinding down against Michael’s half hard erection, and Michael can feel how hard Alex already is. “ _ Please? _ I swear I’ll stop if anything hurts too much.”

“ _ Fuck _ , Alex.”

“You good, Michael?” he wonders, pausing for just a moment. 

“I’m good. You?”

“ _ So  _ good,” Alex says, grinding down against him again, leaning to suck at Michael’s earlobe before whispering, “I’ve been thinking about this for  _ hours _ . Got myself ready and everything,” he says, smiling coyly as he leans back and then stands to drop his shorts to the floor, no boxers beneath to speak of. 

Alex is already fully hard now, first few droplets of precome leaking out. Michael stands briefly to strip off his clothes, and Alex crosses the room to get the lube. He hands it off to Michael as he sits again. Alex stands directly in front of him, slowly unbuttoning his shirt, though he doesn’t go to the trouble of taking it--or his sling--all the way off.

“This okay?” he asks, momentarily self-conscious. 

“Of course, whatever you wanna do,” Michael replies, he smiles appreciatively and adds, “God, you’re gorgeous,” and Alex blushes just a bit at the praise before joining Michael on the couch again. 

“Do we need to--”

“All I need is you,” Alex replies, lining himself up and lowering himself down slowly onto Micheal’s aching cock. Alex throws back his head and lets out a moan of sheer pleasure, and it takes all Michael’s self control, hands gripping to Alex’s thighs for dear life, not to thrust his hips up into the exquisite heat of Alex. “Oh,  _ God _ , yes,” Alex gasps, as he begins to roll his hips, leaning his forehead to Michael’s as he pants. “ _ Fuck _ me, Michael!”

Just as Michael thrusts up, the door to the bunkhouse slams open, and absolute chaos ensues. Alex tries to get to his feet, but Flint drags him off of Michael before he can manage it, pulling him by his uninjured arm across the room. The warden stands behind the sofa, and Michael feels the hard steel of a pistol at the base of his skull. Alex’s mouth moves frantically, as he fights against his brother’s grip, but no sound comes out. 

“I thought I’d made myself perfectly clear to you, Guerin,” the warden says, voice the perfect mockery of justified disappointment as he circles around the sofa, gun still trained on Michael, and stands in front of him, staring down in cold, abject fury. “Disloyalty is not tolerated in this family, not from  _ anyone _ ,” he adds, with a contemptuous glance to Alex, “but  _ least  _ of all from worthless, disgusting, space filth like  _ you _ .” 

He looks at Michael like a bug to be squashed, and the moment of unimaginable terror brings a terribly, crystal clear realization:  _ I’m going to die.  _ And in the next moment, a lifeline of thought that helps him cling to his last shred of sanity:  _ But maybe I can save Alex. _

“It’s m--my fault,” he manages. “All mine. I mm-made him d-do it. B--because--”

“Shut up!” the warden commands, slamming the gun hard against Michael’s face, and he vaguely registers the warm, sickly sensation of blood trickling down his cheek. 

“Dad!” Alex shouts, cry strangled and desperate. 

Micheal doesn’t look at him--can’t look at him--as he tries again. “He d--didn’t have a choice. I--”

The warden grips Michael’s throat, cutting off his speech with a harsh rasp. He uses the hold to lift Michael bodily to his feet, Michael grasps at his fingers--his instinctual need to breathe overpowering the fear of moving against the warden. Just as his vision begins to blur the warden tosses him aside, leaving Michael coughing on the floor as his lungs burn with the gasps of air that follow. 

“Have some decency; get your clothes on,” the warden commands. Alex moves to obey, slowly rising to his feet to get his shorts from the floor. 

Michael finally gathers enough presence of mind to reach with shaking hands to grab his boxers from the floor, but a powerful kick from the warden leaves him gasping for air instead, “I wasn’t talking to  _ you _ , you depraved faggot. You just get on your knees.”

Michael doesn’t react quickly enough for his liking, so he reaches to yank Michael up by his hair. Michael yelps, but manages to get to his knees. He’s facing Alex, and their eyes meet for just the briefest of moments before he looks away again, eyes resolutely on the floor.

“Dad, please.” 

Alex is crying but absolutely silent. Tears are streaming down his face, but his voice is so soft and controlled it doesn’t make sense. Michael is viciously jerked from the realization when the warden touches the metal of the handgun to Michael’s temple.

“Hands behind your head,” the warden adds, and Michael obeys.

For just a moment, he considers relinquishing his hold on his powers and wrecking the whole bunkhouse. It wouldn’t take much, his abilities are raging just under the surface, eager to respond to this unprecedented surge of adrenaline. But antaran powers often present throughout whole clusters. If he blows his cover, they’ll go after Max and Isobel, too.

_ I’m powerless. I’m going to die. I can’t save Alex. I’m powerless. _

_ Oh, God. This is going to kill Max and Isobel, too _ .  _ Fuck. _

_ Just do it. Just shoot me. Just get it over with. At least it’ll be quick. _

“Flint, you saw what happened, didn’t you?” the warden asks, voice steady and almost teasing in its casual tone. 

“Yes, sir,” Flint replies without pause.

“We’d all really believed that Guerin’s little outburst with Alex really was an accident yesterday,” the warden goes on. “But it seems like it was just a precursor to some--uncontrollable fury he’d been harboring. He completely lost his mind. Stormed up to the house--buck naked and screaming in a blind rage--as much as I hated to do it, I had no choice but to put him down like the rabid dog he was,” he warden concludes. Michael shudders and a desperate, “Please, don’t,” escapes his lips before he can stop the pathetic plea.

“Dad, no,” Alex begs again, but his voice is cut off by a choking sound. Michael dares a millisecond of a glance, and sees just enough of Alex being strangled by Flint that he has to look away before he rips Flint’s hand off Alex with his powers. “It’s not his fault--”

“No,” the warden agrees, fury almost palpable, “It’s  _ not  _ his fault. This is  _ you _ and your  _ complete  _ and  _ utter  _ failure to overcome your  _ disgusting perversions _ and live up to the  _ legacy  _ that has been handed to you on a silver platter!” he thunders. “I have tried again and again and  _ again _ for  _ years _ to make something of you, son. I thought we were finally making progress, but it seems you’re further from your path than you have ever been.”

“ _ Dad _ \--”

“And as your father, it is my job to put you on the right path, no matter what it costs,” the warden continues. “On your feet, Guerin,” he commands, and Michael rises slowly, trembling. “We’re going for a little walk up to the house.”

“Don’t do this, Dad, please. You don’t have to do this.”

“Make no mistake,  _ you  _ did this. His blood is on  _ your  _ hands.”

“No,” Michael manages to contradict as they reach the open door, but the word comes out so feeble he doesn’t know if Alex could even hear.

“Anything you want!” Alex blurts as Michael crosses the threshold of the door. “I’ll--I’ll get on the right path, the  _ Manes  _ path. I’ll work for GRACE as soon as I graduate. I swear. You don’t have to kill him; you don’t. I--I understand now how--how important it is to--to live up to my legacy. I get it.”

Michael opens his mouth to protest, but God help him, he can’t bring himself to tell Alex not to make this deal. Because it is absolutely the only chance he has of walking away from this alive. If he’s alive, he can figure out a way to make things right somehow, maybe.  _ Please.  _

“The Manes path,” the warden repeats, mockingly skeptical. “You think you can actually manage that?”

“Yes--yes, sir.”

“As much as I’d like to believe you, your word isn’t worth much to me. Not when you’ve been fucking this filth under  _ my  _ roof for God knows how long while  _ lying to my face _ . I think a hard lesson is what it’s going to take to settle my conscious that I’ve done my duty as your father to--”

“Let me prove it to you,” Alex says. “What--what do you need to know I can follow the Manes path? Killing him would be so much paperwork, Dad. You hate paperwork. Let me do something else.” When his father doesn’t immediately agree, Alex implores, “Flint, you--you had a rough start, too, finding the Manes path. But you learned your lessons. Proved yourself. I can prove myself, too! Right, Dad?  _ Please _ .”

“I was  _ nothing  _ like you,” Flint retorts, and Michael hears the smack of flesh on flesh as he strikes Alex, though he doesn’t dare turn to look.

“Now, now, Flint,” the warden chastises mildly. “We all have our vices to manage, even if your brother’s are a bit more unsavory than yours.”

“Please, Dad,” Alex begs again.

The warden takes a deep breath, sighing as though this is all just some big inconvenience for him. Michael hardly dares to breathe as he waits to hear the warden’s answer. 

“Fine,” he says finally, and relief washes over Michael so completely he almost falls, followed immediately by dread at the realization that the warden hasn’t laid his gauntlet yet. What price is Alex going to have to pay? “Flint,” the warden says. “Go and get one of your playthings, bring her back so your brother can  _ prove _ that he’s done with this sick  _ perversion  _ of his. Alex, you will wait here until your brother comes back, or, so help me God I will make a  _ game  _ of gunning this piece of shit down in the front lawn while you watch. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” both his sons reply in unison.

“In the meantime, Guerin and I are going to have a little _chat_ out in the barn so that he can learn some lessons of his own,” the warden adds, shoving Micheal out the door. 

_ Go and get one of your playthings _ …. _ bring  _ her  _ back….so your brother can prove that he’s done with this sick perversion...  _

_ One of your playthings and bring her back…. _

_ Bring her back… _

_Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. They’re gonna try to fuck him straight--with an antaran? Who else would be Flint’s “playthings.” They’re gonna make him rape her--make her rape him?_ _  
__No, no, no, no, NO!_

_ Not to Alex. Please not Alex.  _

“Don’t do it, Alex!” Michael shouts, turning and pushing against the warden even as he pistol whips Michael to send him sprawling into the dirt. “It’s not worth it! Don’t do what they want! It’s okay!” he persists, fighting against the warden’s grip as he jerks Michael’s arm hard, dragging him toward the barn. Flint leaves the bunkhouse too, slamming the door shut behind him. Michael keeps screaming, all shred of self-preservation and sanity gone in the face of Alex-- _ his  _ Alex--be subjected to this absolute nightmare that will no doubt slash open whatever psychological wound initiated Alex’s careful, loving, unwavering respect for consent. Despite Michael’s struggling, the warden’s iron grip doesn’t waver, he just continues to drag Michael toward whatever hellacious lesson he has planned. He slings Michael into the barn, chuckling lightly as he slams the barn door shut behind them and mutters, “Pathetic.”

“Just shoot me,” Michael demands angrily. “Don’t do this to him, just--” 

“Oh, no,” the warden replies, “you’re too useful to eliminate, now. You’re clearly my son’s favorite pet,” he concludes. “You’re not the one I would have chosen, but convenient all the same. I shouldn’t be surprised; Flint’s pets are the best way to keep him in line, too, though in a different way.”

“You’re  _ psychotic _ !”

“Oooooh, big words from a mutt,” he taunts. “You really should’ve learned your place and kept to it, Guerin. You had so much potential.”

“ _ Fuck _ you and--” the warden silences him with a kick to his stomach that leaves Michael gasping. 

“Now, you obviously won’t be staying in this placement,” the warden says. “We’ll just have to see where you’ll be best suited. In the meantime, I want you to have a lasting impression of the lesson you need to learn tonight. Can you guess the lesson?”

“Spare me the 20 Questions game,” Michael replies, “but I guess I know where Flint learned it.”

“Have it your way,” the warden replies with a sneer, leaning to grab Michael’s forearm in a bruising grip and jerk Michael up. Michael rises to his feet, eager to avoid being scraped down the aisle of the barn. He assumes they’re headed for the last stall, but instead the warden leads him to the tack room. He shoves Michael in, and Michael can’t regain his balance, wondering vaguely if he has a concussion or if his body is just drunk on adrenaline. The warden kicks hard, and while Michael gasps for air he searches the shelves for something. 

“Ah, here we go,” he says, turning to jerk Michael up again, shoving him toward the table in the corner. 

He pins Michael against it with his weight, and the edge of the table puts painful pressure against Michael’s chest. He uses one hand to pin Michael’s left arm to the table and the other swings high and crashes the shoeing hammer into Michael’s hand. Pain erupts up his arm like lightning, and the cry that escapes Michael doesn’t even sound human. He tries to move his hand before the second strike of the hammer, but he can’t. After the third strike, the warden releases him, shoving him back to the floor. 

“Let that be your reminder to remember your place, and don’t you  _ ever touch another human  _ the way you violated my son,” he growls. 

Michael cradles his ruined hand to his chest, unable to tell through the blood just how bad the damage is. He thinks his fingers are all still there, but he can’t think straight through the pain. It overwhelms him. He turns to the side, retching, and tries to sit back up. The world swims as he does, and he falls back to the floor, curling into the fetal position as the blackness swallows him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter are homophobic violence (Jesse Manes is his own warning) and rape/non-con (not descibed in detail and occuring “off-screen”).
> 
> An offer of condolence: there are two more parts in this series. Vague_shadows and I have never written a permanently sad ending, ever. We don’t intend to start with this series. For the second part, we’ve even decided to add some vignettes of Alex’s perspective. I hope this offers everyone a little bit of encouragement to keep going with this fic. 
> 
> It has been a very difficult week for the fandom. If you’ve read the rest of The Black Parade, you know that Vague_Shadows and I have explored the theme of explicit consent extensively. I am asking you for my own peace of mind that if you have thoughts, any which way, about what happened in 2x06, do not share them in the comments of this story. Of course I want to hear what you thought of this chapter, but I just don’t think I can take one more word about the threesome. Everything is awful right now, and this story is a happy place for Vague_shadows and I, despite the rawness of this last chapter. Please don’t turn comments into something I have to read between my fingers. Thank you for your understanding <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, see the end notes for more specific warnings. As always, we want our readers to take care of themselves, so if you ever need spoilers about anything in The Black Parade and it’s Universe to help you determine whether or not you can safely and happily read, we are happy to accommodate. Just shoot us a tumblr message or email (arebutvagueshadows@gmail.com) and let us know what information you need <3 Be kind to yourselves <3 
> 
> Once more unto the breach, dear friends!

Michael wakes up in excruciating pain. Once his eyes adjust to the harsh fluorescent light, he realizes he’s strapped to an exam table and clothed in a thin hospital gown. His right arm is pinned to his side by the two chest straps that hold him down and two more pinning his legs to the table. His mangled left hand is laid out on an extension of the table, strapped at the forearm and elbow. The blood-soaked gauze wrapped around his left hand prevents him from even knowing whether he so much as kept all his fingers because when he tries to move them there’s nothing but overwhelming pain, and he just can’t be sure.

_ Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. _

He doesn’t know how long he waits in the quiet, trying desperately to tell just how fucked his hand really is. He tries to think backwards. He remembers at least two swings of the hammer--but were there more? Time jumped from the warden having him pinned to the table and then he was on the floor, looking up and…

_ Let that be your reminder to remember your place, and don’t you ever touch another human the way you violated my son... _

“Alex,” the name bursts out in an audible sob. Michael closes his eyes to fight back the tears that gather in his eyes. He can’t cry here, not now, not like this. Not even though they’ve...

_ Oh, God, Alex. You should have just let him shoot me. You shouldn’t have agreed to it. You could have let me go and gotten away from that sadistic family of yours. _

Michael can hear the warden’s voice in his head--won’t ever be able to forget it... _Flint, go get one of your playthings_ …. _bring her_ _back….so your brother can prove that he’s done with this sick perversion..._ He retches at the thought of all of it, turning his head to the side so he doesn’t vomit on himself, but nothing comes up.

_ I think maybe I puked already? Fuck. This is all so fucked.  _

Just as the despair threatens to overwhelm him, Michael feels Isobel prodding into his mind.  _ Michael?! Oh, thank God! I couldn’t reach you! We thought you were dying! _

_ Not dead,  _ he answers tiredly.  _ Just royally fucked. _

_ Where are you? We’re coming to get you. _

_ You can’t,  _ Michael replies, the mental toll of keeping the connection is greater than he remembers. Maybe because he’s usually drawing on the surge of adrenaline following an injury, but his adrenaline is long gone now, along with any pain relief it offered.  _ This is too big a problem to fix, Isobel. _

_ Challenge motherfucking accepted!  _ He can feel her resolve, the hope she’s trying to convey to him.  _ Don’t you dare give up on us, Michael! We’re going to figure out what happened. _

_ Don’t risk it... _ he pleads, but her connection to him is already waning, and he’s not sure if it’s from her end or his. 

Once again alone with his thoughts, he takes in the room around him. Is he at the clinic? This isn’t a normal exam room; that’s for sure. The door is reinforced. All the cabinets are locked. The restraints are made onto the table. 

_ High security exam room? Or am I someplace new entirely?  _

He stares over at his hand again, wishing desperately that he could better assess the damage beyond the ache that encompasses it and the stabbing pain that radiates up his arm with every beat of his heart. 

_ What the hell happens now?  _ He wonders, and it brings more of the warden’s words to the forefront of his mind.  _ You’re too useful to eliminate, now...You’re clearly my son’s favorite pet…. _

Michael startles at the sound of the door opening, jarring him from his thoughts. He lifts his head from the table as much as he can to see Jesse and Flint Manes entering. They’re both dressed in their pristine camp officer uniforms. Neither looks flustered in the least, as though this is just another day at the office. 

_ Fuck, how long has it been? How long was I out? Where the hell is Alex? What did you do with him after… _

He lays his head back down on the table, trying to discreetly draw a deep breath to steady his nerves for the oncoming confrontation.

“Good morning, Guerin,” Warden Manes says, voice steely and cruel as ever, he presses a button on the side of the table that tilts Michael up to almost standing. 

_ Morning? So it’s morning now. Everything happened just a few hours ago? Or has it been longer? Not that it matters.  _

“How’s the hand?” Flint asks with a smirk.

“Go to hell,” Michael replies, and it earns him a sharp smack across the face. Flint chuckles, and Michael hisses at the pain, remembering now that the warden pistol whipped him. Twice?

“You’re lucky I don’t just put you down like the rabid animal you are after attacking my  _ son  _ like that. Alex had no choice but to defend himself. I had to intervene and help him subdue you.”

Warden Manes replies, reusing the same threat from the night before; but he’s shown his hand too soon, he’s already told Michael that he doesn’t want to kill him. Michael barks out a laugh. 

“ _ Intervene?  _ Is that what you call terrorizing him and trying to rape him straight?” he demands.

It earns him a punch, once again from Flint. He tastes blood as his lip slices across his teeth, but it was worth it. Michael smirks, hoping there’s blood one his teeth as he grins, and spits the blood to the side. Flint has a predatory gleam in his eye, enjoying the power trip this conversation brings, apparently. The warden is glaring at Michael with terrifying ferocity. Michael should keep his mouth shut. He knows how to handle situations like this--how to survive them--how to play the game to minimize the damage. But it seems that Michael’s sense of self-preservation was lost the minute they dragged him away from Alex at the ranch. Though all his instincts scream in protest, Michael meets the warden’s stare. 

“Tell me, Warden, which bothers you more?” Michael wonders, tilting his head to the side in mock curiosity. “That Alex slept with a  _ man _ ? Or that he slept with an  _ antaran _ ?” Michael demands. “Although  _ apparently _ you’ve already come to terms with Flint  _ raping _ antarans, so I guess it really is just your rampant, homophobic--”

“You better mind your tongue, boy, or I will cut the goddamn thing out of your worthless head,” Warden Manes growls, inches from Michael’s face, overly confident in Michael’s restraints. 

“Fine, go ahead,” Michael replies, spit flying with the furious enunciation of the words. “In fact, I  _ dare _ you.” He jerks his head forward as far as his restraints will let him, feeling the satisfying smack as he headbutts Warden Manes in the nose. 

The warden sputters as blood spurts from his nose and drips down to stain his shirt. Michael grins, even though the move hurt his own already aching head plenty. Maybe it’s not quite the same as the punch in the face he’s been wanting to give the warden all these months now, but it’s the closest he’s ever going to get. And it’s still pretty damn satisfying.

The warden doesn’t try to staunch the flow of blood yet, and it makes the abject hatred in his cold gaze all the more terrifying. Max’s voice in Michael’s head says  _ suicidally idiotic.  _ Because this crazy son of a bitch night just  _ actually  _ rip out his tongue, now that he takes time to actually consider the realities of his situation and not just act on the blind, righteous fury raging through him. The warden steps forward again, reaching to grab Michael’s chin in the hard, familiar hold. 

“Do not mistake me or the position that you are in now, Guerin.”

His voice is chillingly calm yet inundated with unadulterated contempt. Michael grimaces in disgust as the warden’s spittle--tinged with blood from his nose--spray across in his face. “I may have acknowledged that you were too useful to kill, but there are much,  _ much _ worse things than death for space trash like you.” 

The promise of suffering contained in the words extinguishes what was left of Michael’s fortitude. Once again Max’s voice in his mind chastises  _ suicidally idiotic.  _ He still has a few shreds of pride remaining, and he swallows back the urge to recant his words. It won’t do him any good anyway. 

“Flint,” Warden Manes directs without breaking eye contact with Michael. “I believe Dr. Fitzgerald is the surgeon on call this morning. Let him know that Guerin has been bumped to priority one, and it looks like surgery might be a little more complex than we anticipated. I’ll need him to meet with him so we can discuss our options.”

Flint grins at the directive. “Yes, sir.”

_ Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. _

As Flint disappears out the door, the warden walks over to the counter to take paper towels from the dispenser. He uses them to wipe away the blood on his face, studying Michael as he does, clearly considering something. Once his nosebleed is quelled, he pulls a ring of keys from his pocket. 

“It’s such a shame that your rage is so pervasive,” the warden says, pressing the button that returns the table to it’s full horizontal position. “If only you’d managed to calm yourself down,” he continues as he unlocks a cabinet to pull out a vial and syringe. “But with the way you’re remaining so frantic, mindlessly struggling,” he says, though Michael has now stilled completely as panic overtakes him. “I have no choice but to make sure you don’t hurt yourself any further. After all, it’s my responsibility, really, as your guardian and as a GRACE official to save you from yourself.” 

He slowly fills the syringe with the pale blue liquid from the vial. There’s no way to avoid the injection, but Michael isn’t going to give the warden the satisfaction of begging him to stop. He hopes the defiance he’s trying to project will cover his terror. Given the way the warden smirks as he sinks the needle into Michael’s right bicep, he’s well aware just how petrified Michael is right now, and he’s loving every moment. Michael feels the liquid burn as it dissipates through his arm. He expects to pass out, but he doesn’t. The world just goes a bit fuzzy at the edges, and his body feels heavier and heavier. 

He flinches--or at least his instincts want to--as the warden reaches for his chin, but he doesn’t feel any of his muscles react. The warden takes his chin and directs his head to the side, so that Michael stares over at his injured arm. When the warden lets go, he tries to move his head back, but he can’t manage that either. He can’t even twitch the fingers of his right hand. 

_ What the hell did you dose me with?  _ he demands, but the words come out as a garbled mess, slurred and unintelligible, and the warden just chuckles. 

“Step one of getting that mouth of yours under control.”

The warden reaches beneath the table and brings up a strap that wraps across Michael’s head at the temple. 

“Shame they didn’t use this earlier,” the warden says as he tightens the restraint to secure Michael’s head in place. “Might have kept you from getting yourself into so much trouble. Then again, you do seem to have a knack for getting yourself into trouble, don’t you?”

Michael hears the sound of the door open, and from his peripheral he sees the warden glance that way. 

“Dr. Fitz says he can meet you in his office in ten minutes,” Flint’s voice informs him. “Unless you wanted him to come straight here?”

“No, no, his office is fine. Wouldn’t want to bore Guerin with medical details that are over his head anyway.” 

The warden’s heavy boots make his steps easy to track as he heads for the door. He exits with Flint, leaving Michael with nothing to do but wait and wonder. The clock on the wall ticks audibly, and, for a while, he just tries to keep time by counting the clicks. He keeps losing count though, unable to focus for more than a few minutes through the continuing haze. He has no idea whether it’s been ten minutes or ten hours before the door opens again. People enter, but the footsteps are too soft for the Warden and Flint. 

_ Hello?  _ he tries, but the words come out as a strangled hum. 

“Wait, Dr. Fitz, is he  _ awake? _ ” The voice sounds young, and vaguely familiar. 

“In a manner of speaking,” Dr. Fitzgerald’s familiar voice replies. “It’s actually a great day for you to be here observing. It’s an unusual scenario for surgical procedures like this. Dr. Morton, would you care to explain?”

“It’s called conscious sedation,” another unfamiliar voice says, as a middle-aged woman comes into Michael’s view. She has a mask over the majority of her face, her eyes are bright green behind large, gold-rimmed, round glasses. He feels like a bug trapped under her microscope as she pulls a chair and cart over to Michael’s side. She reaches to remove the hospital gown, cutting it away and then placing leads on his chest. “These will monitor his vital signs so that I can keep him at a proper level of sedation.”

_ Proper level of sedation? Not unconscious? I don’t understand what you’re talking about. This is surgery. My hand must need surgery if it’s this fucked up. I need to be unconscious for surgery. Oh, fuck, please let me be unconscious for surgery.  _ All his terrified ramblings only come out as a groan. 

“I’ve read about that,” the girl says. “but I thought conscious sedation was for less severe procedures? Like endoscopies, dental procedures, and things. I thought you said this operation would be a closed reduction and fixation?”

“You’ve done your homework,” Dr. Fitzgerald says, sounding impressed. “And you’re correct. Usually a surgery like this would be done under general anesthesia, but this antaran has a rare metabolic reaction to general anesthesia. He can’t tolerate it, so all his procedures are done with conscious sedation.”

_ No, that’s not true. It’s not. You’re lying to her. They’ve used it before. My very first surgery to put the chip in my arm and fix my leg from the crash. When I fell out of the tree and broke my wrist . When I broke my nose. When I broke my arm. None of those were like this. I don’t remember any of it. _

“So he won’t remember this?”

“Very minimal,” Dr. Motion confirms, “and he’s not really aware of it even now. The sedative is effective enough that essentially he’s just adrift in some general lights and sounds, nothing specific. It’s all very humane.”

_ That’s not true. I can see it. I can see all this. I hear all of it. I know what’s happening. Oh, fuck. Fuck.  _

“I know we were discussing earlier that most people refer to Antaran medicine as ‘the wild west of the medical field,’” Dr. Fitzgerald says, chuckling as he pulls a stool to sit at the end of the table extension on which Michael’s arm rests. “But we’re not Dr. Frankensteins, either.”

Dr. Morton laughs as well, and Michael watches, paralyzed as she inserts a needle into the crook of his arm. The sting isn’t excruciating, but it’s uncomfortable. He doesn’t want to look at it anymore, doesn’t want to still be looking when they take the dressing off of his hand. With all the strength he can muster, he closes his eyes.

_ Thank, God. This is still fucked up, but I can manage. I don’t have to see it. I can pretend it’s a bad dream and just-- _

But then there’s gentle pressure as a thumb brushes across each of his eyes in turn to open them again. 

“His eyes have to stay open?” the girl asks, she comes to stand behind Dr. Fitzgerald, and, even though Michael can’t quite focus on her face, he swears he knows her from somewhere. 

“Just another level of precaution,” Dr. Fitzgerald says. “Dr. Morton can monitor his pupils for reactions, another data point to track his sedation. Of course, we treat all the antarans with care, but this one has the particular interest of the warden. Don’t want to make any mistakes here.”

The words are all Michael needs to affirm this is no mix-up or misunderstanding or failure of the drugs they’ve administered. Dr. Fitzgerald is in the warden’s pocket--apparently Dr. Morton is, too? Is the whole clinic?--and the warden no doubt wants Michael to remember every fucking moment of this hell. 

_ Do not mistake me or the position that you are in now, Guerin...there are much, much worse things than death for space trash like you... _

He watches with dread as they prepare the instruments, all while chit-chatting with the girl observing as though this is a casual business lunch--discussing procedure with the girl, how antaran immunity to the vast majority of earth bacteria and diseases negates the need for sterile operating locations, how much faster she’ll be able to move through a program for extraterrestrial medicine than human or veterinary medicine, how everything in antaran medicine is cutting edge because they’re still figuring things out without all the “bureaucratic bullshit” that apparently hinders human medical research. Michael tries to tune it out, but it’s nearly impossible. His brain seems determined to focus on anything other than awaiting the moment the real horror show begins. 

When Dr. Fitzgerald finally removes the bandages, revealing the motley, mangled flesh of his hand, a scream rips through Michael, though it comes out as a garbled, inhuman whine. In his mind he’s pulling desperately away from the surgeon and the instruments, but in reality no part of him moves in the slightest. He’s left paralyzed and helpless with a front row seat to the gory display of bone and tendon and muscle that used to comprise the majority of his hand.

_ At least I can’t really feel it all. The pressure but not the pain. Small mercies, small mercies, small mercies. Oh, God, they’re just getting started. How long am I trapped here? How long will this take? Maybe they’ll decide it’s too broken to fix? Maybe amputate. That would be over pretty quick, right? Just let this be over. Let it be done, please. Let me go. Let me out of here! _

“Dr. Morton, are--are you sure he’s sedated enough?” the girl asks, voice strained and quiet. “No offense, just--he’s--he’s crying, is that normal?”

_ She knows. She can see I’m still here. She knows. Make a scene. Please? Please make a scene. Ask them to close my eyes because it scares you. Do something. Anything. Please. Please. Please. Please! You’re my only chance at escaping this.  _

“No need to worry,” Dr. Morton replies. “Perfectly normal. He’s at just the level of sedation he’s supposed to be.”

“Oh--okay.”

_ No, no, no. Don’t just take her word for it. Push! Ask questions! Do something! You know I’m watching. Help me! Please! _

But she doesn’t say anything else. She just starts answering the questions Dr. Fitzgerald poses about the anatomy of Michael’s hand as he pieces it back together with wire and pins and stitches, which leaves Michael privy to every second of the painstaking process--made all the worse as the warden’s threats run rampant through this mind. 

_ You better mind your tongue, boy, or I will cut the goddamn thing out of your worthless head… _

_ Guerin has been bumped to priority one, and it looks like surgery might be a little more complex than we anticipated...I’ll need him to meet with him so we can discuss our options… _

Michael had thought he understood what a monster the warden was, but he was only glimpsing the most superficial layer. He didn’t try to get away while he had the chance; he was naive enough to think he could manage it; and now he’s condemned to the custody of an unyielding psychopath.

_ Do not mistake me or the position that you are in now, Guerin...there are much, much worse things than death for space trash like you… _

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Good morning, Guerin. I’m Dr. Valenti. I’m the medical intern assigned to your case for your post-op care from here on out, now that Dr. Fitzgerald has overseen the first couple weeks of your recovery.”

Michael hasn’t actually laid eyes on the surgeon since the day following his procedures, when he came with the warden to gloat over their handiwork. Other than nurses who come in and out for basic care, he's been alone in this tiny room, left to wonder what the hell the warden is planning next. 

_ Wait a minute, Valenti? Like the sheriff? Old friends with the Manes family? _

_ And he’s overseeing my recovery?  _

_ Great….just great…. _

“I saw in your charts that you’re in clinic custody following an incident of violence,” Valenti notes sedately, “but it seems that was an isolated incident and you’ve cooperated in your medical treatment this far.” 

“I’d rather not have to bother with restraints,” Valenti says, and, to Michael’s complete surprise he comes to unbuckle the chest and ankle straps securing Michael to the bed. “But please understand at the first sign of aggression I’ll have to subdue you. It’s just policy. Understood?”

Michael rolls his eyes, but he nods. 

“How’re you feeling today? Any issues?”

Michael sighs in the silence that follows.

“I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me,” Valenti admonishes.

Michael grins--well, the grotesque mockery of a grin he can manage in light of the situation--revealing the twisted mass of metal filling his mouth and wiring his jaw shut. Unlike every other member of the medical staff he’s encountered since surgery, Valenti clearly wasn’t expecting to see the hardware that fashions the warden’s makeshift muzzle.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Valenti hides his surprise well, flipping quickly through his notepad. “I must’ve missed part of your chart. I only had notes about your hand on my rounds sheet. We’ll go through that first, and then I’ll take a look at your jaw. Can you speak at all?” he wonders. 

Michael shakes his head ‘no’ and Valenti nods his understanding. “Okay, I’ll try to keep it to yes or no answers then, sound good?”

Michael nods, and they continue on through the exam. 

“Are you in pain?”

He nods again.  _ Yes. _

“Is it higher than five out of ten?” 

This time he shrugs and gives a nod.  _ Sometimes. _

“There’s always pain, but it isn’t always higher than a five; is that correct?” Valenti clarifies. 

Nod.  _ Yes. _

“Would you call the constant pain an aching kind of pain?”

_ Yes. _

“Is there ever any stabbing pain?”

_ Yes _ .

“Does the stabbing pain happen often?”

_ No.  _

“Does it happen at least once every 24 hours or so?”

_ Yes. _

“Does it seem to be related to how much you move your hand?”

_ Yes. _

“That should get better with time,” Valenti says, “as the muscles heal and get used to moving in a different way to compensate for the injury.” He moves on with his assessment. “Can you move your fingers for me?” Michael lifts them an inch or so. “Can you move them individually, starting with your middle finger?” Michael does, though it takes a little more effort, and he grimaces at the pain that shoots up his arm when he doesn.

“Was that stabbing pain?” Valenti asks, and Michael nods. “Can you show me where?”

He traces the line up the side of his arm around his elbow and up to his shoulder. Valenti watches carefully, making notes. 

“Does it hurt every time you move them like that?”

Michael shakes his head back and forth in what he hopes is a “maybe.”

“Not every time you move them, but sometimes?” Valenti interprets, and Michael nods. “Does it hurt more often than it doesn’t hurt?” Michael nods again.

“I’m a little concerned by how much pain you’re reporting,” Valenti says, “but it hasn’t been long since surgery. I’ll take a look at the dosages for your medications and raise them if you’re not already maxing out.”

Michae just shrugs. Even if the dose goes up, he doesn’t have much faith it’ll actually be administered correctly. Word is spreading like wildfire that he’s one the warden’s shitlist for attacking Alex--one nurse actually blessed him out with a ten minute lecture of how he should be absolutely riddled with guilt for terrorizing a “delicate soul” like Alex. She’s the only one who has said anything aloud, but the way the others look at him--either glaring angrily or watching warily as if he’s a rattlesnake ready to strike--leave no doubt that he isn’t a priority to anyone on staff here. 

“Can you show me how much range you have to bend your fingers?” Valenti requests, bringing Michael out of his bitter musings. 

_ Bend them?  _ he wonders, raising an eyebrow to try and show his confusion.  _ Dr. Fitzgerald said I was lucky to even have them all still attached. To be careful not to move them too much. To hold them as still as possible. _

“I’m sorry if it’s painful to do,” Valenti says--and sounds like he means it. “But I really do need to see where you’re at with joint flexibility.”

Michael shrugs and tries to bend them, managing only the slightest movement--maybe a centimeter?--and grimaces at the pain even that small motion brings. Valenti frowns.

“Is that stabbing pain, too?” Valenti wonders, and Michael nods, anticipating the next question and indicating where the pain radiates. 

Valenti makes more notes, and then asks, “can you show me on your right hand the exercises that you’ve been trying to do with your left?” 

When his words don’t elicit a movement response in Michael’s hand, Valenti’s eyes flick back to his face. Michael shrugs and shakes his head.

“No?” Valenti translates. “You’re not going to show me? Or you haven’t been trying any with your left?” He realizes he’s offered too many questions at once. “Sorry, one question at a time. Are you saying--”

Michael waves his right hand, tiring of the excruciatingly long process of communicating this way. Once he has Valenti’s attention, he mimes writing and points to Valenti’s pen. 

Understanding his goal, Valenti gives him the pen and turns over a blank sheet in his notebook for Michael, handing it over without qualm.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were literate,” Valenti says. “I could’ve offered this sooner.” Michael frowns up at him, pausing in the middle of writing “fluent in English” on the page. Valenti tries to backtrack--apparently unhappy to have offended Michael. 

“I just meant--with your job history, linguistics training wouldn’t have been mandatory, so it’s unusual.”

Rather than get sidetracked on his antaran literacy soapbox--which Valenti wouldn’t give two shits about anyway--Michael opts for communicating the more important short-term message.

_ “Didn’t tell me to try exercises,” _ Michael scrawls messily.  _ “Told me not to move it.” _

Valenti’s face darkens in anger, and, for a second, Michael assumes he’s going to be called a liar. Then, Valenti mutters, “Well, then no wonder your muscles are atrophying, and you don’t have more movement. I thought maybe you misunderstood what you were supposed to be doing with the physical therapy, but they didn’t tell you to do anything? Actually told you  _ not  _ to move it?”

Michael nods and shrugs.

“Well, we can cover that before I go. You should definitely be moving it, though. There are exercises I’ll show you, and a schedule for when to kick the excercises up a notch. Especially if you’re literate, I can get you a lot of resources to look at that should make it all clear. It should help your function and range of motion and help alleviate some of the stabbing pain, too, hopefully.” 

The spark of hope that the words illicit in Michael must show on his face because Valenti gestures to the notebook Michael still holds and prompts, “What’re you wondering?”

_ “Play guitar?” _ Michael scrawls. Because he’d assumed he was fucked, but maybe…

The pity in Valenti’s eyes answers the question for him even before he confirms, “Probably not.”

Michael nods, shrugging like it’s no big deal, even as the jolt of disappointment hits anew, like pressing a bruise.

“The issue isn’t just range of motion, it’s also the fine motor strength you’d need to press the string properly,” Valenti expounds. “It’s unlikely you’d be able to play guitar  _ well _ , but there may be other instruments you could pursue.” He pauses. “Any other questions about your hand?” he asks. Michael shakes his head. 

“Okay, let me just get up to speed on your jaw then.” 

He flips through Michael’s file, in search of records that Michael assumes don’t exist. “It’s unusual for the wiring involved with a broken jaw to also restrict your tongue which restricts your speech,” Valenti says with the tone of a man thinking out loud. “It’s generally an issue of you learning to talk through your teeth more than you being unable to speak at all. I just want to make sure I’ve got a full understanding of how complex the issue is, so we can go over everything we need to.” 

Only when he’s gone through every bit twice does he finally say, “well, that explains why I didn’t have it in my notes. There’s no mention in your chart of the injury. There’s not even a copy of your X-ray in here--only the one for your arm. Let me see if I can pull up the digital version on—”

He stops talking when Michael pointedly waves the pen and starts writing again. 

_ “No X-ray of my jaw. Nothing to treat.” _

“Nothing to treat?” Valenti reads aloud. “What does that mean?”

_ “Nothing is wrong with it.” _

Valenti stares at the words for almost a solid minute, and, when his gaze meets Michael’s again, there’s a quiet fury in his eyes. 

“There was no injury to your jaw at all? Nod if that’s correct.”

Michael nods.

“Can I see the wiring again, please?” he asks.

Michael shrugs and nods, and Valenti reaches slowly with his gloved hands to hold back Michael’s lips for a closer look.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters. “Not that I didn’t believe you,” he says, “but even  _ if  _ I didn’t, no injury needs this much wiring, and that’s only what I can see, there’s—are there wires holding your tongue down, too?”

_ “Wires and some bigger pieces. Keeps tongue from lifting up.” _

“Which is what keeps you from talking,” Valenti says, and Michael nods. “Someone was trying to prove a point to you.” When Michael doesn’t respond he persists. “It’s not a medical treatment; it’s a punishment. The wiring of your jaw  _ and  _ the choice not to give you PT on that hand. No, ‘punishment’ is too kind of a word-- ‘torture’ would be more accurate. Physical and psychological torture to teach you some sick lesson, and shut you up.” 

Michael just stares. Valenti looks furious, like steam will start pouring out of his ears any second. Over what? The way they’ve treated Michael? A random antaran he just met? Or is this a test? Is the warden checking whether Michael plans to start telling the truth about life on the Manes Ranch? The safest bet is silence, so Michael just waits as Valenti continues to vent. 

“Well, joke’s on  _ them _ . You didn’t have to say anything for me to understand what’s really going on,” Valenti says. “It’s the only explanation...Which means everyone else who’s had a role in your treatment is either complicit or has looked the other way.” Michael nods and shrugs again. Valenti picks up Michael’s file again, wondering, “Why?”

_ Because Warden Manes is the one who ordered it. Because they think I hurt Alex. Because nobody looks twice at a human’s choice for an antaran troublemaker.  _

“Oh, I see,” Valenti says, frowning at the paperwork. He looks up, studying Michael for a moment or two before wondering, “You were placed with the warden?”

Michael nods. 

“Explains a lot.” Valenti continues to stare down at the file, but Michael can’t read the expression on his face. Maybe he’s connecting the dots of who Michael is. Maybe he’s remembering that the Manes family are friends of his family. Maybe he’s regretting the care he’s bothered with so far--the time wasted on Michael. After what seems like a long time, but was probably a minute or two at most, Valenti looks up, lips pursed.

“Well, we both know I’d be lying if I said I could do anything about it directly. I’m just starting my time here. I’ve only been out of school a few months. I’m the lowest doctor on the totem pole for this GRACE clinic. I wish that wasn’t the case, but you strike me as the kind of person who appreciates honesty over placations?”

_ Yes. _

“But I  _ can _ at least teach you the exercises for your hand, get you the literature, hopefully make things a little more bearable at least.”

Michael nods his understanding. His stomach growls, and Valenti wonders.

“They have you on a nutrition plan?”

Michael nods, mimes drinking a shake, trying and failing not to replay the threat from Warden Manes. 

_ It’s a privilege, you understand? I can add as many layers to this hell as you make me, Guerin. Piss me off, lash out at a nurse, start spreading lies and slander about my family, and the next step is punching a hole through your stomach for a feeding tube instead, do I make myself clear? _

Michael shudders at the memory in spite of himself. Meanwhile, Valenti’s eyes go to Michael’s hand, and his frown deepens. 

“If you’re the antaran who was on the Manes ranch, I know the official story on that wound,” he says. “Anything else you want to tell me about it?”

Michael shakes his head. No reason to bother. It wouldn’t change anything.

“Your brother is Max Evans, right?”

Michael’s mind erupts in terror at the question.  _ Why would he ask me that? What does he want with Max?! Don’t bring Max into this. I don’t even want thoughts of Max mixed in with this shit!  _

“Oh, don’t misunderstand why I’m asking that. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to make you worry. I should have explained. I know Max through his work with my parents. My father was the sheriff when Max first started volunteering at the department. My mom ran for sheriff after my dad passed away.” 

_ So you really are part of the Valenti family that knows the Manes… _

“Is there anything you don’t want to tell me that you would like to talk to her about? Or your brother maybe?”

Michael shakes his head.  _ No way in hell. _

“You understand that there are programs in place to help antarans who have suffered abuse in their placements? My mother, Max, a lot of officers like them with CCSD, they take their obligation to serve and protect very seriously. They would do everything they could to help you.”

Michael sighs. Valenti sounds earnest in his offer to help Michael talk to the right people. Maybe they really would get some traction. Maybe it would cause a stir--or at least enough of one to get him away from the warden. 

Or maybe the warden spins the story and covers it all up, and he’s just all the more pissed off for having to go to the trouble. Maybe he uses it as a way to get his hands on Max and Isobel. They’re safe from this black hole of misery that Michael’s life is becoming, and he’s not going to suck them in if he doesn’t have to. 

Jesse Manes is the kind of monster you don’t try to fight unless you have a clear, foolproof killshot. Alex knew it, too. _I’m going to get us leverage, okay?..._ _if that’s what it takes to make sure you can be safe!...I am going to find a way to set us free of them._ Except there’s no getting free from the warden. He’s too powerful, too ruthless, too smart. 

Michael shakes his head ‘no’ again. To his surprise, Valenti doesn’t persist. “That’s your choice to make, Guerin, and it’s a valid one. If you ever change your mind, the offer stands to help get you in touch with them. In the meantime, if I can’t cure the overarching ‘disease’ that’s causing your issues, maybe we can at least manage the ‘symptoms.’ Any objections to me making an effort to keep being your doctor?” 

He shakes his head again. Valenti as his doctor sounds like his best shot at decent medical treatment by far. 

“Good, then I’m gonna try to be just enough of an asshole in front of everyone else to manage that. Any objections?”

Michael picks up the pen again. “Why bother?”

“First of all, because I signed up to be a doctor with GRACE for the sake of  _ helping _ antarans and understanding how antaran and human medicine can help  _ both  _ species thrive. I did not sign up to participate in some fucked up plan to punish people with misapplied medical treatment. And second, I know how hard your brother worked to get you back to Roswell. Not a single conversation I’ve ever had with him has ended without  _ some  _ mention of you or Isobel or both. I will admit that I tune out most of his rambling,” that gets a grin out of Michael before he can think better of it, and Valenti smiles as he says, “ _ But  _ in the midst of that rambling, he told a story I still remember, about a three-legged dog named Eileen--which is a little insensitive, but mostly just hilarious, by the way--and, apparently, you spent the better part of a summer figuring out how to outfit her with a wheelchair rig? Something like three different prototypes, one for the house, one for walks in town, and one of ‘off-roading’ as you called it?”

Michael nods, smiling at the memory even though he hasn't thought about that in  _ years _ , and it kind of feels like being sucker punched. 

“I just have a hard time believing that a ten-year-old with that kind of compassion and intelligence would attack Alex Manes--or hurt anybody, really, unless he had absolutely no other choice. And I have a hard time believing that Max Evans would have fought so hard to get his brother to Roswell if you were just a violent, sociopathic asshole. I’m not going to pretend that I know the details of your life--or of what happened when your hand was injured--but I  _ do  _ know you don’t deserve what’s happening to you.  _ Nobody _ does.”

Michael shrugs.  _ It is what it is. _

“Okay, moving on to the physical therapy options,” Valenti says. 

As promised, Valenti shows Michael the movements and even prints off a few diagrams for him to reference as he goes, suggesting that Michael memorize and trash them, if he can. 

“Any other questions?” Valenti asks as they finish up. 

_ No. _

“As much as I hate to, I’m going to have to put the restraints back in place before I go,” he says, and Michael shrugs, sitting back against the bed again so Valenti can pull the chest strap over him. 

“Should I tell your brother I met you?” Valenti wonders as he gathers his notebook and files. “Not that we catch up that often or anything, but, if you wanted, I could--”

Michael shakes his head to decline the offer, as badly as he’d like to have some way to communicate with Max, if this is the Manes version of a warning, the more removed from Michael his brother can stay, the safer he’ll be. If Valenti accidentally let too much slip, Max and Isobel might get more ideas about staging a rescue or some other idiotic plan. It’s already an almost nightly intrusion from Isobel into his mind to insist Michael tell them what’s going on. He’s been responding with  _ I’m fine; don’t worry  _ and doing his best to shut Isobel out otherwise. Maybe it makes him a hypocrite, after all the grief he gave her for shutting him out, but he doesn’t see how letting them in on the misery would help any of them.

“I’ll see you in a soon, then, hopefully, so we can follow-up on your progress,” Valenti says, and Michael nods a goodbye as he disappears out the door. 

  
  


* * *

The day after Valenti treats him, Michael gets moved to a padded room down the hall. This place he’s familiar with--or at least rooms like it. He’s cooled his heels in rooms like this after being taken into GRACE custody for behavioral issues. Sometimes with a kind smile and a “just to keep you safe while we work everything out.” Sometimes with just a harsh shove and the door slamming behind him. As much as he  _ loathes _ the unbidden memories the relocation brings, it’s honestly an upgrade. At least he can move freely in the small space, unencumbered by the restraints. By the time the warden comes for him, Michael has lost track of the days--three? Four?--since they moved him. Not that it really matters. 

The warden strolls into the cell casually. Michael sits up on the small cot affixed to the wall in the corner. He debates for a moment or two whether he should stand up, before deciding to keep his seat. A mixture of fury and terror war within him as the warden crosses the room to stand in front of him, leering down and reaching for Michael’s chin even though Michael’s  _ already _ looking up. He winces as the warden’s tight hold grind his gums against the metal in his mouth, and the warden smiles. 

“You know how I operate by now, Guerin,” Manes says. “You know that I am absolutely unyielding in dolling out consequences when people get in my way--and you know that there is never,  _ ever  _ an option where I don’t get my way--It is only ever a question of how difficult you make things for yourself and the unfortunates who are associated with you.”

He drops a stack of pictures and articles onto the cot beside Michael and pushes Michael’s head down to look at them. They’re all of Max and Isobel. The wonderful success stories of the Antaran Placement Program. Great propaganda for GRACE to show the world how useful antarans can be if they’re taught and trained and supervised properly. The pictures are a threat, but Michael doesn’t fully understand how.

“I give presentations all around the world to the other camps,” Warden Manes says. “Evaluate their programs. Inspire the GRACE employees--and prospective employees and donors--to keep up the good work. The necessary work. That keeps the GRACE program going for the protection of the planet. The problem is, your brother and sister--and antarans like them--are getting a little  _ too  _ good at acting like humans.”

_ What the hell is that supposed to mean? _

“So you’re going to help me demonstrate why we still need GRACE camps, and why we can never let our guard down against invaders like you and your siblings. You’re already off to a fantastic start actually.”

He pulls his phone from his pocket, and turns it toward Michael as a video begins to play. The warden stands at a podium, flanked by Flint and Alex, both of whom are wearing GRACE uniforms, standing at parade rest, and staring straight ahead. Michael’s stomach turns at the sight. Alex’s hair is buzzed into the same “regulation” cut as his father and brother. His piercings have all been taken out. No eyeliner accentuates his dark eyes, which are as dull and emotionless as the rest of his expression. It’s Alex, but it isn’t  _ his Alex.  _

_ Oh, God, what has he done to you, Alex? I never wanted you to pay a price this high. Never. I’m so sorry.  _

“I called this press conference to clarify some rumors that have been spread regarding a recent incident involving the antaran placed with my family,” the warden announces on the video, reading from a prepared statement. “The Manes family has supported the Antaran Placement Program for generations now by opening our home to candidates from the work placement program. In the past, these placements have always been productive and successful. However, unfortunately, I must confirm the rumors of a violent incident involving the antaran known as “Michael Guerin” who, until this incident, was working on our ranch. He perpetrated an unprovoked attack on my family, and my son, Alex, acting in self-defense, subdued him. He is currently being treated for minor injuries at a GRACE facility where we are also investigating the possibility that events leading up to manifestation of violence were in fact exacerbated by dormant antaran powers. This is a trying time for my family as we work to move on from this betrayal of trust and a sobering reminder of the need for constant vigilance. We ask for privacy and respect and are confident that the GRACE system is more than capable of managing this delicate situation. Thank you for your time.”

He leaves the podium, and his sons step in line behind him. The reporters all want to ask questions, but he waves them off. The warden turns off the video and pockets his phone again. Michael closes his eyes, struggling to process everything, trying to rein in his fury and _think_. It’s all a game, and he has to play to any advantage he can, especially if Max and Isobel are at risk. 

“I want to be abundantly clear. You have been designated as an Antaran Under Investigation, which means all your rights granted under the Antaran Protection Convention are forfeit. You are going to do what I tell you, when I tell you, like a good trained monkey, and then you are going to spend the rest of your miserable life rotting in the medical research ward. Those are _ inescapable _ truths of your pathetic existence. The  _ only  _ influence you have over your future  _ at all  _ is whether or not your brother and sister join you in hell, do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

Michael’s chest tightens as the gravity of the warden’s words sink in. Landing in the medical research ward has been fodder for nightmares since his childhood, he just always assumed if he ended up there he would have  _ actually  _ earned it by using his powers--not that he would end up there because of trumped up accusations from a psychopath. Michael has no doubt, given the way the warden has hijacked his medical treatment thus far, that he can accomplish what he’s threatening. And if he would do what he’s done to Alex--a human, his own  _ son _ \--then Michael can’t delude himself into believing he would spare Max and Isobel if Michael causes more trouble. 

Despite his efforts to keep his breathing even, he can only seem to draw short, stuttered breaths. He’s losing every semblance of bravado and self-control he hoped to have as he dealt with the warden, and the abject terror of just how helpless Michael is in the face of the warden’s cruel and calculated wrath establishes a vice-like hold on him. 

_ There are much, much worse things than death for space trash like you... _

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. _

Michael is brought back from the edge of abject panic when Warden Manes slaps him hard across the face, grinding gums against wire again. Michael gags as he tastes blood with no real choice other than to swallow it. He winces as the warden grips hard at his chin again. 

“I asked you a question! _Do you understand me?_ ” Michael nods, as much as the grip on his chin will allow, and Warden Manes releases his hold with a shove. “Good.”

* * *

Once they start to move him around, Michael truly loses track of time--in fact, he loses track of everything, more or less--the number of unexplained injections, the endless effects they have, the number of people who parade by, watching as Michael lies helpless and paralyzed or strapped to a table as tremors wrack his whole body or trying desperately to escape his cell as panic consumes him and heinous hallucinations close in to utterly overwhelm. 

For all his threats of what would happen if Michael didn’t comply, the warden rarely leaves him with the physical and mental autonomy to do much of anything on his own volition, gleefully overseeing the administration of what he calls “possible treatment options.” Michael becomes more and more certain with time that the injections are just various narcotics and stimulants given in extreme doses. Eventually he recognizes a general routine: a new place, more injections, talk of his siblings that are always delivered in a tone of accomplishment and praise, talk of Michael--who they refer to now as AUI-20605, as far as he can tell--in a tone that sounds like ghost stories shared around a campfire. 

_ He very nearly killed my son--an antaran from the same cluster as these so-called successful integration cases. He is a shocking but valuable reminder that antarans are a violent race. They despise compassion. They despise freedom, love, and they thrive on our tragedy. They are, at their very core, killers. We cannot afford to forget that the successful cases are the exception, not the rule. _

It takes longer than it should for Michael to realize the very real possibility that the gaps in his memory might not all be drug-induced. More and more often he surfaces to consciousness only to find that the aches and injuries sustained in what he thought were nightmares or hallucinations are all too real. He’s not just a prop for the warden’s cautionary tales; he’s a lab rat and punching bag and a plaything. 

The only reprieve comes when he manages something close to peaceful sleep, and his subconscious transports him back to the bunkhouse--except it exists without the confines of the four walls that enclosed what was once one of Michael’s favorite places in the world, surrounded instead by an endless, beautiful desert that’s painted by the sunset with swaths of orange and red and pink and purple. Storm clouds gather in the distance, but they never roll in and the rain never falls. In his dreams, he finds himself huddled under his old bunk or curled into a tight ball on the worn sofa, or under the spray of the ice cold shower--trying to  _ feel  _ something through the numbness or wash away the feeling of a stranger’s touch. But the best part, the part that offers the only miniscule ray of hope, is that Alex always finds him. He coaxes Michael from his hiding places out to lay on the bunk or to sit in his lap, holding him tightly and soothing him as he falls apart.

_ You should’ve just let him shoot me, Alex. You should’ve just let him shoot me. It wasn’t worth it. I wasn’t worth it. This wasn’t worth it. You should’ve just let him shoot me. _

Alex always shushes him, begging Michael not to say things like that as he presses gentle kisses to his forehead rocks gently and promises him it’ll be okay, repeating variations of his hopeful promise from that terrible night _ I’m going to get us leverage against them...I’m going to find a way to set you free from him… _

In the best dreams, Alex sings him the songs they learned together, as Michael rests peacefully in his arms. 

> _ Back to the place, where we used to say, _
> 
> _ “Man it feels good to feel this way.” _
> 
> _ Now, I know what I mean. _
> 
> _ Back to the street, back to the place, _
> 
> _ Back to the room where it all began; _
> 
> _ Back to the street, back to the place, _
> 
> _ Back to the room where it all began; _
> 
> _ 'Cause it's nine in the afternoon. _
> 
> _ Your eyes are the size of the moon. _
> 
> _ You could 'cause you can so you do. _
> 
> _ We're feeling so good, _
> 
> _ Just the way that we do, _
> 
> _ When it's nine in the afternoon... _

* * *

Michael full-body flinches at the sound of the door opening, a reaction he’s long-since given up trying to hide. There’s no point in wasting the energy anymore. He closes his eyes turning toward the wall as he curls into a smaller target and waits for the inevitable assault.

“Guerin?” a familiar voice says quietly, choking on the word. 

_ Oh, I’m just dreaming,  _ Michael realizes. He sits up slowly to face Alex, marveling at how real the dream feels, aches and pains and all, wondering vaguely if it’s a side effect of one of the substances pumping through Michael’s veins. It’s the first time he’s dreamed of Alex being in this hell with him, and it’s nothing like the stalwart Alex in the dreams of the bunkhouse. For starters, he’s wearing a GRACE uniform and everything about his appearance is perfectly “regulation.” This Alex looks absolutely distraught, and Michael wants to tell him not to worry, but he can’t. His jaw is still wired shut, and  _ that  _ never happens in the good dreams.

_ A nightmare, then. Fuck, fuck, I don’t want to think of Alex here. Not here in this hell.  _

“I kept--kept having this feeling that something was wrong--and it took me longer than I wanted to talk to the right people and then I heard—they said dad was making an example out of you and I—I had to—” Alex stops talking as his voice breaks, tears flowing silently down his cheeks. “I should’ve found you sooner, Guerin. I’m so sorry. But I’m going to fix this, okay? I’m gonna get you the hell away from him. I  _ promise  _ you.”

_ This isn’t a dream. Oh god, this isn’t a dream. He’s really here. He’s really... _

The shame of it is overwhelming—sitting here helpless and broken and pathetic. It didn’t matter so much when it was just Warden Manes and Flint and strangers he didn’t know and would probably ever see again; it was bearable—or at least he could pretend it was—but to have  _ Alex  _ see him like this…

Michael realizes too late that he’s starting to lose it, heart rate skyrocketing with the jitters brought on from the latest injections. Alex knows him too well, and he’s already reaching slowly to place a comforting hand on Michael’s shoulder. He shoves it away.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Alex soothes, trying again, to reach out but Michael gets up, brushing past him to walk to the other side of the tiny room. He tries desperately to hold back the tears of humiliation and fear and all the other emotions he can’t vent. He can’t scream, not really, and his agony comes out in more of a frustrated growl. He pounds mindlessly at the cinderblock wall, eager to  _ feel  _ the physical pain as it scrapes and bruises his hands and distracts him from the emotional turmoil that’s reducing him to a blubbering idiot. 

Alex stops his hand mid swing, with a firm but gentle grip on the sad excuse for a fist Michael can manage with his ruined hand. “Oh, God, Guerin, your hand is--what did he—this is all my fault,” he laments as he runs his fingers softly over the scarred flesh on Michael’s hand and then up, ghosting over the angry red wounds in the crook of his arm at the overused injection sites. Michael shakes his head in protest, pulling his hand away. 

“I know you probably think I just left you with him, and he probably showed you that press conference where I just  _ stood there  _ while he  _ lied  _ about  _ everything,  _ but--but he said if I didn’t keep up my end of the deal that he’d kill you. After that night, I knew he meant it. I thought I was protecting you--that you would be okay until I could figure out how to get you out of the research ward. I had no idea he would do  _ this _ . I just—please say something? Anything? Scream at me if you want; I deserve it.”

Michael still can’t bring himself to look at Alex directly, just shakes his head. Alex places a gentle hand on Michael’s face, swiping away tears with his thumb. 

“Michael, please say  _ something. _ ”

The sound of his name on Alex’s lips, spoken with a reverence that pierces through Michael, rouses everything he’s been desperately trying to bury since that fateful night. He makes the mistake of meeting Alex’s eyes, and a sob tries to escape but he chokes on the sound, trapped by the wiring that seals his mouth shut. 

“Wait, what’s in your mouth? Michael,  _ can  _ you talk?!”

Michael shakes his head, and the look of horror and guilt on Alex’s face makes everything all the worse. Michael sinks to the floor as the unstoppable sobs overtake him, and Alex joins him, cradling Michael to his chest.

“Shhh, it’s okay, just breathe, I’m gonna get you away from him; I promise.”

_ So much like my dreams, maybe this is just a dream after all. Please let it be a dream. Please don’t let him know they’ve shattered me into a sniveling mess. Please spare us both that agony. _

“You’re gonna be safe, just breathe. I’ve got an idea--a plan to get you out of here and back home. Just breathe, Michael.”

But Michael can’t breathe, not well anyway, not when he’s crying hysterically like some baby, and he can’t calm down. He’s hyperventilating, he realizes, but the knowledge doesn’t help alleviate the problem. Dizziness starts to set in, and he closes his eyes as the room starts to spin. It does little to ground him, though.

“We need—is there a way to get these off? So you can breathe better?” Michael shakes his head. “Fuck, of course not. Fucking  _ sadistic bastards,  _ I should have brought a goddamn gun and just--” Michael opens his eyes, reaching to cover Alex’s mouth. 

_ You can’t talk like that. You can’t let him think you’re a threat. It’s not safe. You’re not safe.  _

“Okay, okay, I’m not helping. I’m sorry. C’mere, I got you. Just keep trying to breathe deep, okay, match my breathing if you can. You’re okay. It’s going to be fine.” Michael loses track of time, and the world shifts in and out of focus. It takes longer than it should to realize Alex is singing quietly,

> _ 'Cause it's nine in the afternoon. _
> 
> _ Your eyes are the size of the moon. _
> 
> _ You could 'cause you can so you do. _
> 
> _ We're feeling so good, _
> 
> _ Just the way that we do, _
> 
> _ When it's nine in the afternoon... _

Michael closes his eyes, conjuring the memory to the front of his mind, grounding himself in the calm of that moment. Lying to himself that maybe he really is safe, maybe Alex really does have a plan to get him out, maybe….maybe….maybe...and eventually, he manages something akin to a normal breath. 

“Yeah, there you go,” Alex says, hand cupping Michael’s face again, smiling through tears as their eyes meet properly for the first time since he entered Michael’s cell. 

“Michael, I’m so sorry I couldn’t come up with another way. But I have to get you away from him  _ now _ , and, without more leverage, I have to--”

The door to the room bursts open with an all too familiar bang, interrupting Alex. Michael cowers back pressing himself against the wall as if he could sink farther in and hide. Alex rises to his feet without pause, in one graceful, powerful move, matching the fury radiating off Warden Manes. 

“What the  _ hell  _ do you think you’re doing?” the warden demands. 

Michael trembles but he wills himself to stand up, leaning against the wall. He stays behind Alex like the coward he’s become during his time in perdition. 

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Alex replies, voice dripping with rage. “You told me if I played along and went to take the job at GRACE-Europe quietly that you would make sure he was--”

“ _ It’s _ alive, isn’t it? What did you expect, exactly? That I’d book him a suite at the Ritz? Did you  _ really _ think after what that thing did to you--”

“ _ Michael  _ did not do  _ anything  _ to me, you homophobic asshole! You’re worse than Flint! So determined to live in denial of the fact that you’ve got a gay son that you’re going to torture an innocent--”

“Innocent my ass, he  _ seduced  _ you. It’s an embarrassing truth to accept--your brother had the same struggle--but at least he  _ learned _ from his mistake so that he could overcome it. I thought  _ you _ had learned, too. Don’t be blinded by the  _ perversion  _ he planted in you. He’s been targeting you since the moment he met you. He was  _ using  _ you, Alex. These aliens are monsters. Open your eyes, son! You’ve seen his file. Incident after incident of unprovoked violence!”

“Do  _ not  _ talk to me about unprovoked violence!”

“I’m going to settle this like I should have months ago.”

He lifts his pistol out of its holster and aims over Alex’s shoulder at Michael. Alex doesn’t recoil; he steps more firmly in front of Michael, blocking the warden’s shot. Michael tries to push or pull Alex out of the way, but Alex won’t budge. 

_ You should’ve just let him shoot me that night. It’s okay if he does it now. You’ve done too much for me already, Alex. Let me go. Just let me go. _

“So help me God, Dad, if you shoot him--if you do  _ anything  _ other than let him go the hell back to Roswell--or wherever he wants to go--and get on with his life without interference from your  _ sadistic  _ bigotry, our deal is  _ off.  _ Not only will I abandon my GRACE assignment, I will broadcast on every social media outlet and news source I can find that your youngest son is the queerest man in the whole. goddamn. galaxy. 

And then I’ll start fucking up  _ your _ entire career. I’ll tell the world how you found out I was taking advantage of the antaran you had placed at our house, and how instead of helping him, you tortured him into silence. They should buy it well enough, when when they start digging into all the antarans who came to our house and then got whisked off to classified assignments to cover up Flint’s--”

“ _ Enough _ !” 

Warden Mane is visible shaking in fury. For just a moment, Michael thinks he just might pull the trigger anyway. Michael tries again to push Alex away, but Alex just takes a step closer to his father, crossing his arms. 

“What’s it going to be? Your fucked up little revenge game? Or the entire Manes legacy? ‘Cause, personally, I would love nothing more than to watch you burn.” He takes yet another step closer, staring down the barrel of the warden’s gun. “I’m not afraid of you anymore, Dad.” 

The warden lowers his gun but doesn’t holster it yet. He takes the two steps needed to come and loom into Alex’s space, but Alex barely even blinks. 

“If you’re  _ not _ afraid of me, then you’re either naive or just an idiot, son. Because, no matter how much you may want to ‘watch me burn,’ we both know that I’ve got far too many friends in high places for you to ever  _ actually _ manage it.”

Michael closes his eyes, tensing for when the warden starts throwing punches, wondering how to get Alex out of the way--how to get him out of here without some fight for the gun that ends with Alex hurt or dying.

_ Think, Michael, think.  _

“But,” Warden Manes continues, “It  _ would  _ be a bit of a pain in my ass; and a poor use of GRACE resources to clean up the spectacle you’d try to make of yourself. Not to mention the effect it would have on my plans for the quick rise of your career.”

“ _ Fuck _ your plans for my career!”

“But that’s your bargaining chip, isn’t it? If I understood your little tantrum correctly, I let your little pet run along home, and you step up and  _ fully embrace _ your spot in the family legacy. You get to manage Guerin; I get to manage you. That’s the offer you’re making?”

_ Alex, don’t do this. Please don’t. Not for me. Not again. _

He steps forward to grab at Alex’s shoulder again, frantic now. Alex turns his head just enough to look at Michael over his shoulder. “I know what I’m doing, and it’s my  _ choice _ to make. I’m  _ good _ .” He turns back to face his father. “Yeah, that’s the offer.”

“You can keep an eye on him, but you are  _ never _ to  _ see  _ that  _ thing  _ again, you understand me? And you continue putting your perverted experimentation phase and rebellious streak  _ far  _ behind you. Do we have an understanding?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Alex offers a hand that his father seizes immediately in a tight grip.

_ Oh, God. What just happened? What did you agree to? No, no, Alex. No! You can’t. _

“Just need to set the record straight before I go.” His voice is oddly neutral, now. He turns his back to his father so he’s facing Michael again. He doesn’t meet Michael’s eyes, looking to the side or the floor or  _ anywhere  _ but Micheal’s face. “I’m sorry that I lied to you. I took advantage of the situation, and it wasn’t fair.”

_ Alex, please don’t do this.  _ Michael shakes his head, tears blurring his vision as he reaches for Alex. Alex gently pushes Michael’s hands away. 

“I don’t love you, Guerin. I just told you what you wanted to hear so that I could get what I wanted from you.”

_ No, that’s not true.  _ _ It’s not. It can’t be. I love you, and you love me, too. It was real. I know it was.  _

“I made this mess, and I’m going to clean it up. It’s time for you to forget about all this, and just go home, understand?” 

Alex turns away and heads for the door, and Michael grabs a handful of the over-starched cotton of Alex’s shirt trying to stop him. Alex firmly pries away Michael’s weak, shellshocked attempt to hold him back, earning a satisfied grin from the warden. The warden steps forward to sneer down at them, reaching past Alex to grip Michael’s chin hard. After all this time in hell with the warden, it’s become somewhat of a killswitch for Michael. 

_ If you fight him, it’ll only be worse. Stay still. Just let him vent his anger, and maybe he’ll go. Don’t make it worse on yourself. If you fight him, it’ll only be worse.  _

By the time the warden releases his hold and Michael manages to claw back to some semblance of control, Alex is gone, with the warden out the door right behind him. It slams shut and the lock clicks into place, leaving Michael alone and devastated--wishing for the first time that seeing Alex really had been just a dream. 

* * *

As they move him from whatever hellhole Alex found him in, Michael wonders whether the warden really intends to hold up his part of the bargain. He thinks he might finally be losing his mind--trapped in the endless loop of Alex’s words. Maybe it was just him enacting the plan he didn’t get to share with Michael. Maybe.... _ I know what I’m doing, and it’s my choice to make. I’m good… _ Maybe it was a message.

_ I’m sorry that I lied to you. I took advantage of the situation, and it wasn’t fair. I don’t love you, Guerin. I just told you what you wanted to hear so that I could get what I wanted from you.  _ For the endless reasons Michael has to refute the assertion, he still can’t shake the words, one of his greatest fears, spoken aloud.  _ I don’t love you, Guerin. I just told you what you wanted to hear. I don’t love you, Guerin. I just told you what you wanted to hear. I don’t love you, Guerin. I just told you what you wanted to hear _

Time skips and jumps, and he still isn’t sure how much is physical and how much is psychological. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. They bring him into an exam room instead of a cell, using the restraints to keep him on the table as the too-familiar shakes and muscle cramps of withdrawal set in. He waits as calmly as he can ever manage, until the door opens again and terror jolts through him at the sound of the warden’s voice.

“You make a good point, Kyle.” 

“Well, I default to what you think is best, Warden, of course,” Valenti’s familiar voice replies, “but Guerin isn’t special. I’d hate to waste valuable resources on a nutrition plan. Have him eat the same as everyone else.” 

Even as the words sink in, Michael looks from the warden to Valenti, alarmed to have them here, working together. Maybe he only met Valenti once, but he’d been nice---given some hope that not everybody here was under Warden Manes’ thumb--and now he’s standing beside Warden Manes, leering down at Michael just like all the others. 

“Guerin, you remember Dr. Valenti?” Warden Manes says, and when Michael doesn’t immediately answer, Warden Manes grips his chin hard until Michael whimpers. “I asked you a question.” Michael nods. “He’s an old family friend, he’ll be keeping an eye on you for me, and, if you set so much as a toe out of line, I’ll hear about it. Understood?”

Michael nods again. 

“Do not assume that the conversation you overheard between me and my son in any way negates my control over you.” His phone beeps with a notification. He takes a look and sighs. “I’d better get back up to the main office. Walk me out while they get him sedated?” 

“Oh, I don’t think we’ll need sedation,” Valenti says with a malicious grin. “Like I said, no need to waste resources on Guerin.”

Warden Manes smiles at the response. “I like the way you think, son. Keep up the good work.”

He leaves, and silence grows for almost a full minute before Valenti lets out a sigh. Michael flinches at the sound, in spite of himself, but when Valenti speaks it’s like another man entirely. 

“I’m sorry for that, really, but it’s a necessary evil. I know it’s been months since I saw you, but you remember that part about being just enough of an asshole in front of other people to keep being your doctor? Well, that was Exhibit A.” He offers a notebook and pen. “Do you want to be able to write?”

Michael shakes his head to decline to offer. It doesn’t matter anyway. He can do whatever the fuck he wants with me, and we both know it. It’s all just games and bullshit at the end of the day.

“I meant what I said about sedation not being necessary, but that’s mostly because I’d like to be able to use this time to speak with you and get as much information about the past few months as I can. There’s very little in your charts, but, from what I’ve heard there should be much, much more that’s relevant to your medical care.” 

Michael shrugs. He isn’t surprised there’s not much in the charts. Charts are for treatment. They weren’t actually trying to treat anything. 

“The option I would like to use,” Valenti goes on, “is to give you a mild painkiller which should alleviate most, if not all, the discomfort of removing the wiring on your jaw, but will leave you lucid enough to understand our conversation and the full physical exam I’ll need to conduct after.”

_ Wait, a full physical exam?!  _ Michael shakes his head to protest, and mimes writing to get Valenti to offer him the notepad again. 

_ “Why do I need a physical exam?” _

“Very routine, I promise you. It’s the same exam performed on every antaran to clear you to live in camp. I will walk you through every step.  _ But  _ if you would rather be sedated, we can do that.” 

Michael shakes his head and scrawls,  _ “Just painkiller.” _

“For the record, this is also an option,” Valenti says as he goes to the cabinet to fetch the vial. “It’s very mild, but you don’t  _ have  _ to have any impairment at all. You understand your choices?”

Michael nods again, and underlines “just painkiller _ ” _ in the notebook to affirm his decision. He’s honestly more eager than he’ll ever admit aloud to have anything to take the edge off. He flinches when Valenti reaches for his face, and Valenti draws back. Michael rolls his eyes, trying to pretend that it’s not a big deal, just a reflex learned from months of Warden Manes and Flint and all the others grabbing Michael’s face too hard to grind the wires against his gums and get him to move how they wanted. Valenti purses his lips. 

“That was my fault. I shouldn’t have surprised you. I’m just going to inject this in your gums on the left and then the right side up top and then again on the bottom. Then, I’m going to get the wire cutters and start dismantling the hardware. Once you can open your mouth, I want a good look at the state of your tongue first, that’s my biggest concern at the moment. Then, we’ll get to work on taking the anchors off your teeth. Sounds reasonable?” Michael nods. “Any questions? Do you need to write anything down for me?”

He shakes his head to decline. Valenti reaches for his face more slowly this time, and Michael doesn’t flinch. He feels the slight pinch of the needle as Valenti administers the drug. 

“So, I’m just going to tell you what I know,” Valenti says as he works. “I’m assuming the warden hasn’t given you much information. He likes to keep people guessing.” Valenti’s face is shrouded with the anger Michael remembers from his last appointment. “That bit before--about taking these off so you don’t need a nutrition plan anymore--it wasn’t in the context of continuing on in whatever classified placement you’ve been in since I last saw you. From what he’s told me, you’re reassigned back to this camp-- GRACE-US West, by the way, if you weren’t sure--and if he has plans for you beyond being a typical camp resident, he hasn’t mentioned anything to me. In fact, I’m supposed to do an assessment for work detail in the camp, which would be an odd request if he was moving you anywhere else or keeping you at his beck and call.” 

He appreciates that Valenti doesn’t offer any false hopes--no “never again” no “safe here” no “it’s all okay.” Just simple, helpful facts.

“Okay, that’s the last of the exterior wire; can you open your mouth for me?” 

Michael obliges, and Valenti mutters, “Such  _ bullshit _ ,” as he cuts the wires for the plating that restrains Michael’s tongue. “Okay, move your tongue around slowly to see how it feels. Then just try to speak when you’re ready; no pressure. ”

It’s less surreal than he expected, finally having the freedom to lift his tongue. It feels raw where it’s rubbed against the wires in places, but normal. He doesn’t give himself long, too ready to end the suspense of whether lasting damage has been done.

“Testing, one, two, three?” His voice is hoarse but otherwise uninhibited. He smiles. “Damn, not too bad.” 

“Not bad at all, actually. It’s phenomenal. There are cases of patients waking from comas who can speak normally as if they never stopped. I was hoping that would be the case for you, but with all the hardware used, I wasn’t sure. Is there any pain in your tongue? Cramping?”

“No cramping, just irritation from where the rig was wired in.”

“Even if they keep you isolated for a while, you should speak to get yourself used to it again, but you’re lucky.”

He sets an almost frustratingly slow pace for the physical exam that follows, describing each step before he starts it, always asking permission before making any contact. To his surprise, it doesn’t make Michael feel patronized. Valenti checks Michael’s range of motion with his diabled hand. He asks about the injuries that resulted in the cuts and bruises and scars scattered all over Michael’s body, making notes in a separate notebook rather than on Michael’s chart; he asks about the track marks on Michael’s arms, and the effects of the endless injections that caused them. Michael provides some details where he can, but so much of the last few months is a blur--and, even if he could, he’s not sure that he would want to bring any of the memories into focus. 

“Anything else you want to tell me? Any questions you have before I go?” Valenti asks finally. 

“Do you know when they’re moving me from here up to camp?”

“The process usually starts as soon as I turn in this health assessment paperwork. Normally within 24 hours or so, but your case is unique; that’s just a guess. Anything else?”

“Nope.”

“Anything you don’t want to tell me that you want to talk to my mom or your brother about? Because that offer still stands.”

“No, but--” Michael cuts off the request, trying to think past his pounding headache and assess whether there’s a test hidden in Valenti’s offer. 

“Yes?”

“I don’t really know when I’ll get a chance to talk to Max, so, if--if you wanted to tell him you saw me, and that I’m back and I’m okay-- _ just  _ that. Not--everything we talked about. He can’t know all that.”

“I understand. I’ll deflect his questions with Doctor-Patient confidentiality for everything except that you wanted him to know you’re okay.” Michael nods. “It’s hard for me to prescribe something to help with the withdrawals when I don’t know what they’ve been giving you. I’m afraid it’s just going to be general acetone. You’ll pick it up in daily rations from the dispensary at camp, and it’ll wean down over the next two weeks. I can’t prescribe it for longer than that without seeing you again, so I’ll have them set up a follow-up two weeks from today. Like I said, I can’t fix the entire situation, but I’m happy to help you manage it as much as I can. I’ll see you in a couple weeks, okay? Good luck settling in at camp. You aged up out of the dorms, so maybe a little more peace and privacy than the last time you were in the general population.”

Michael nods. “Yeah. Thanks, Doc.” 

Valenti smiles and shrugs. “Just doing my job,” he says as he leaves, shutting the door gently behind him.

Valenti is doing a  _ lot  _ more than his job requires, and they both know it. 

_ Some people are just nice, Guerin,  _ Alex’s voice says in his mind. It’s so crystal clear that Michael actually turns to look behind him and prove that he’s alone in the room. Of course he is. Alex isn’t here. He wouldn’t want Alex to be here anyway, not tangled up in all this mess. 

_ I made this mess, and I’m going to clean it up. It’s time for you to forget about all this, and just go home, understand?... I’m sorry that I lied to you...I don’t love you, Guerin. I just told you what you wanted to hear ... _

_ I don’t love you, Guerin… _

_ Just go home… _

But as far as Michael was concerned, “home” was being with  _ Alex, _ and, now, Alex is gone. 

* * *

When the knock sounds at the door, Michael jumps to his feet, already on guard, before he remembers where he is, and that no one who barged in to assault him ever knocked anyway. 

_ Only Alex ever knocked.  _

Besides, this door has a lock, and a peephole even. He’s been here less than twenty-four hours, transferred, as the warden agreed, to an outdated studio apartment in the camp. It’s supposed to be  _ his  _ and it’s as close as anything ever has been, really. 

“Coming!” He crosses to the door, and a glance through the pinhole reveals two women and a young boy bearing a small basket. He doesn’t recognize any of them, but he opens the door anyway. They probably just have the wrong apartment. “Can I help you?” 

“We don’t want to intrude,” the older woman says. “We just saw you on your way in this morning and wanted to welcome you to camp.”

“I’m not entirely new,” Michael replies. “just--been gone a while.”

“Well, welcome home then,” she amends. 

_ Just go home...I don’t love you, Guerin.  _

“I’m Naomi, and this is my daughter Aleta and my grandson, Luke.”

“I’m Michael.”

“Micheal _ Guerin _ , right?” the boy asks, eyes wide and curious, with a tone that seems to be something like morbid curiosity. “You’re the--”

“Hush, Luke,” his mother scolds. 

Naomi seems to be studying Michael’s face. She has a kind smile, and an air of wisdom about her. “You look young enough that we guessed this might be your first solo housing assignment?” Michael nods. “Young bachelors always seem a little lost on their first few days settling somewhere besides the dorms. We thought a little peach cobbler and come company might make the place feel a little more like home? Unless you’re not feeling up to company?” 

Luke lifts the basket he’s holding up for Michael to take, and he sees the handle of a cast iron skillet covered with a dishtowel. He doesn’t really see how to dismiss them without being downright rude, and the dessert already has his mouth watering. If this place is supposed to be home now, it’s probably not the best idea to snub people on the first day.

“Oh, um, sure. Come in, if you want. I--uh--I haven’t really, done anything, but the basic furniture comes with it so...” He gestures to the small futon. “Have a seat.”

It’s only big enough for Aleta and Gloria to sit comfortably, and Luke squeezes into the space between them. Michael grabs a chair from the tiny bistro table in the kitchen, and turns it to sit backward, leaning on the back of it. 

“I guess the shipment with your personal effects hasn’t arrived yet?” Aleta supposes, taking in the sparse space.

Michael rubs self-consciously at the back of his neck. “No, uh--I just--don’t really have much.”

“You haven’t got  _ stuff _ ?” Luke wonders. “Why not? Is it ‘cause you move a bunch? ‘Cause my friend Janie, they moved and had to leave a whole bunch of stuff at their last camp so they started all over like new. But we got lotsa stuff at Mama and Nana’s shop that you could get so this place isn’t so  _ blah _ .”

Aleta glares at her son in obvious embarrassment. “ _ Lucas _ !”

Michael laughs. “It’s fine. He’s right. I guess it is kind of “blah” in here, huh? Tell me about this shop?”

“It’s got all kinds of stuff. Nana can make anything--well, just about.” 

Naomi smiles fondly. “I dabble a bit with blankets and rugs and clothes and things. Any project that involves fabric, really. We’ve got a stall over in the market corner. Aleta is a pretty wonderful seamstress herself.”

“I’ll have to check it out once my first stipend comes through,” Michael says.

“Actually, we do have some extra things lying around that we’d be glad for you to just have. If you’d like to spruce the place up.”

“Thanks, but I can wait until I can pay you for it. I don’t need charity to--”

“It’s not charity, Michael,” Naomi explains in a tone that brooks no argument. “It’s  _ community _ . Maybe they’ve never let you stay in a camp long enough to understand, but our people--”

“How do you know how long I’ve been in camps?” His suspicion flares, dousing the easy repor they’d been building. 

“There are only so many antarans on this planet.”

“Yeah, but still too many for you to know--”

“Oh, don’t get your hackles up. You’re not just  _ any  _ antaran. You’re clustered with the two bright young things they named Max and Isobel Evans. Everybody in this camp knows about them--and we’ve heard plenty of rumors about you too, even if they did manage to keep you under the radar for a long time.”

“Then, you know enough to know I’m nothing like Max and Isobel. If that’s the kind of antaran neighbor you’re looking for, I can save you the trouble of--”

“No, you’re not like them,” Naomi agrees, “That’s more true than you even realize, I’d bet. And it wasn’t right for GRACE to try so hard to force you into that mold.”

She looks so incredibly sad that Michael has the absurd urge to hug her, though he obviously refrains. She sighs heavily, still watching Michael as though she can divine his story just from the sight of him. 

“Why do you keep talking like you know me? Have I met you before? After the crash? When I was a kid or something?”

“No, we haven’t met. I’ve just gotten pretty good at reading people over the years. Benefit of old age. And this community is important to me. Making sure that our young people feel like they have a place to belong is a mission near and dear to my heart.”

“Why?”

“Life is difficult enough without trying to face it all on your own.”

“So, then, what? You’re the unofficial camp welcome wagon?”

She smiles. “You could say that. It’s not just a welcome though. Anything you need, let us know if we can help.”

“And you have a standing invitation to Sunday dinner,” Aleta adds. “Not that you can’t come around any other day of the week, too, if you want. We’re over in building R, Unit 116.” 

“Oh, uh, okay, thanks.” 

The smalltalk turns to which work detail Michael has been assigned (they call it “beautification detail” but it’s trash pick-up, if they’re being honest). Apparently Aleta’s husband, Tony, started in beautification and then transferred around to end up as a builder on one of the residential construction and maintenance teams. They list off several others with various work details with the offer to introduce Michael, if he doesn’t like his detail. 

He tries to follow the conversation, but his mind is racing along with his heart. The rationed two ounces of acetone this morning is long gone from his system, and apparently the detox symptoms are setting in with gusto. He can feel the sweat starting to gather on his brow and the jitters are getting harder and harder to hold back. Just as he’s wondering how to politely get these people the  _ hell  _ out of here so he can devolve into whatever crazed junkie frenzy awaits him, Aleta rises from the futon.

“Well, we’d better get going. Ready, Luke? Mom?”

“You two go on ahead, so Luke can set the pace and get some energy out. These old bones will be right behind you in just a minute. I’ll see you at home.”

“Okay, we’ll see you at home, then. It was nice to meet you Michael.”

“You, too.”

“Don’t forget to come to the shop for some stuff!” Luke adds with a smile.

“I’ll come by soon as I can.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

As Aleta and Luke leave, Michael rises to try and help Naomi to her feet if he can. But she rises at the same speed as Michael, without the slightest pause. Michael quirks up an eyebrow.

“I get the feeling your ‘old bones’ could probably keep up with Luke just fine.”

She huffs a little laugh. “Most days.”

“So why the pretense?”

“For Luke’s benefit, so that he doesn’t have to keep the secret that there’s a water bottle filled with acetone in that basket we brought for you.”

Michael moves without thought or hesitation to where the basket sits on the kitchen counter. Sure enough, tucked to the side of the cobbler is a plastic water bottle almost filled. He grabs it out eagerly, but his hands shake too badly to manage the top easily. 

“Here, honey, let me get it for you,” Naomi offers, reaching to take the bottle. “Not all at once, if you can help it. We never know when we can manage more.” She hands him the open bottle.

“Right, right, yeah, of course, thank you,” Michael replies, taking three large gulps before he manages to rein himself in and pull the bottle back from his lips. “Thank you, so much, I can--I’ll pay you back as soon as I can. I know it must’ve cost--”

“I’m not worried about that, Michael, just glad to help.” Naomi takes the bottle away gently, returning the cap and placing it back in the basket. “Make sure you find someplace safe to keep that. They don’t check apartments as often as the dorms, but it still happens on occasion. Better safe than sorry.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, really. I don’t know why you’re bothering, but I appreciate it. I wanna return the favor, if I can.”

“Come by the shop tomorrow and take those extra things I mentioned off our hands. How about that?”

“That’s not  _ returning  _ a favor. That’s just adding to what I owe you!”

“I never did like to keep score. I wish you wouldn’t.” She frowns, with that same sad look she had while watching Michael earlier. “But I know it’s hard to adjust. Being transactional is easier than just trusting people--not just for you, for all of us. Except those kinds of arm's-length relationships aren’t how to keep a culture going. I know we’re probably overwhelming and pushy, and if you want us to leave you alone, I’ll respect that. But whether it’s with us or other folks here in the camp, you deserve a family here. Make sure you find it. They’ve already kept you alone for so long; don’t waste more time that way.”

“Maybe I don’t mind being on my own,” Michael replies.

“Maybe not,” she concedes. “But I still hope we see you for Sunday dinners.” She punctuates the sentiment with a gentle pat on his arm, but Michael flinches anyway. She doesn’t comment, so he doesn’t either. It isn’t until she has her hand on the doorknob that another question occurs to him.

“How did you know?” 

“Know what?” 

She turns back to face him, taking a step away from the door. He gestures toward the basket. 

“How’d you know that I’d need the acetone? I can’t imagine that’s exactly a standard housewarming gift, no matter how kind y’all are. Is the detox that obvious all the time? Or does the whole camp just know who I am and what happened and assume--”

“Oh, honey,” she interrupts, taking another step closer; she reaches more slowly this time to pat Michael’s arm, and he manages not to flinch. “You’re not the first antarn who came back to camp after a stint in the medical research ward under AUI designation.” She sighs. “And you’re not the first antaran who suffered on that ranch, either.” 

The words crash over Michael like ice water, and his stomach clenches unpleasantly. He’d suspected, especially after the incident with Flint when Alex let slip something about it “not being the first time.” Still, to have it confirmed--and confirmed that it’s apparently an accepted fact that any antaran assigned to the Manes ranch is headed for hell--adds yet another layer of frustration and anger to the fire burning in Michael, fueling the fervent need to  _ do  _ something to  _ change _ this endless cycle of misery they’re all trapped in. But what could he possibly do against a system full of people like Jesse Manes? 

“I’m not broken. I don’t need pity from anybody. I just--”

“I know you aren’t, Michael. After all I’ve heard, and my experience with other antarans whose stories I would bet contain just a fraction of the horrors in yours, I expected you to be half out of your mind when we came today. We even gave Luke a pep talk on the way over, reminding him that the adjustments are hard and all the usual lines in case the antaran we visit has a meltdown while we’re with them. It’s abundantly clear that you’re a lot stronger than anyone has probably ever given you credit for, and hopefully you only get stronger, now that you’re finally where you belong.”

“Finally where I belong? What? You mean I belong in an  _ internment camp _ ?”

“No, Michael, I mean you belong  _ with your people. _ ”

For a moment, Michael’s brain can’t quite process the thought. He doesn’t have a “people.” He has Max and Iz. He has--had?--Alex. That’s it, and that’s plenty to worry about. Isn’t it? He doesn’t need anyone else. He’s fine.

_ It’s not charity. It’s community. _

“Huh, ‘my people.’ I guess I never really thought about it like that.”

“Glad I could offer a new perspective, then.” She pauses with her hand on the doorknob. “I’ll see you tomorrow at our market stall to pick up those things?”

“Sure, I’ll do my best.”

“Just to warn you, if you don’t come, Aleta will probably assume you’re in incapacetated by withdrawal symptoms and come to check on you. She’s a worrier.”

Michael laughs. “Yeah, my siblings are like that, too. I’ll make it over to see y’all. I just might be a little worse for wear. I mean, can’t have my apartment looking so ‘blah’ I get called out by a five year old.”

“Exactly.” She smiles and meets his eye one last time before closing the door behind her. “And welcome home, Michael.”

He turns to survey the small apartment again. It’s dangerous to get attached to places. Nothing is permanent. Nothing can really belong to an antaran. Someone else is always in control, waiting to--

But now Alex is one of those people in control of his life. 

_ I don’t love you, Guerin....Go home... _

_ You’re finally where you belong...You belong with your people... _

_ Welcome home, Michael. _

Maybe it is only an illusion of home. Maybe he’s being a naive idiot. Maybe he’ll start to rebuild himself only to have this life ripped away like all the other good things he’s tried to establish. But if he can survive the cataclysmic loss of life with Alex, he can probably survive anything, right? Maybe it’s worth the risk.

_ Welcome home, Michael… _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Jesse Manes remains his own warning, Injury described in detail, medical torture/unethical medical care, use of physical restraints, mentions of unwanted touch, and mentions of debilitating drug use. Body horror, especially concerning Michael’s mouth and hand.
> 
> ******************************************************************************
> 
> Thank you all so very, very much for reading! The kudos and comments along the way were absolutely magnificent! We’re thrilled that people are enjoying exploring this ‘verse with us!!!! 
> 
> As mentioned before, this is Part 1 of 3. The story was drafted as one giant odyssey for the boys, but we felt it was better suited to be organized into parts since it’s so long. Please subscribe to the series and/or Vague Shadows' tumblr to get updates when the next part begins. (On that note, how could we post 100k of all this suspenseful angst and fuckin’ in such a short amount of time, you may ask. Well, we’ve actually been writing on all three parts for four months now. It might be a bit of a break before you see part 2 surface, but rest assured we will be back to finish up this journey with y'all!)
> 
> Much love!  
> VS & SRL
> 
> \--SPOILERS-- DO NOT READ BELOW THIS IF YOU DON'T WANT (general) SPOILERS
> 
> Speaking of part 2, we are on the lookout for My Chemical Romance and other pop punk emo songs as a playlist for writing. We would love some suggestions! Generally we need songs that say “longing, anger, relief, growth (but maybe not the best kind)” for Alex and Michael’s Lost Decade. Leave them in the comments, email us, send us a message on tumblr, affix the suggestion to a carrier pigeon, whatever floats your boat.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! We hope you enjoy it!


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